FRESH  LEAVES 


BY 

FANNY     FERN. 


NEW  YORK: 
MASON     BROTHERS. 

1857. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1857,  by 

MASON    BROTHERS, 

Ic  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court,  for  the  Southern  District 
of  New  York. 


STEREOTYPED    BT  PRINTED  BY 

THOMAS    B.  SMITH,  0.     A.     ALVOBD, 

82  &  84  Beekman-st.,  N.  Y.  15  Vandewater-st.,  N.  T. 


TO 


RACE      E  L  D  R  K  D  G  E, 


PKEFACE. 

EVERT  writer  has  his  parish.  To  mine,  I  need 
offer  no  apology  for  presenting, 

First,  a  new  story  which  has  never  before  ap 
peared  in  print; 

Secondly,  the  "  hundred-dollar-a-column  story," 
respecting  the  remuneration  of  which,  skeptical 
paragraphists  have  afforded  me  so  much  amuse 
ment.  (N.  B. — My  banker  and  I  can  afford  to 
laugh !)  This  story  having  been  published  when 
"  The  New  York  Ledger"  was  in  the  dawn  of  its 
present  unprecedented  circulation,  and  never  hav 
ing  appeared  elsewhere,  will,  of  course,  be  new  to 
many  of  my  readers ; 

Thirdly,  I  offer  them  my  late  fugitive  pieces, 
which  have  often  been  requested,  and  which,  with 
the  other  contents  of  this  volume,  I  hope  will 
cement  still  stronger  our  friendly  relations. 

FANNY  FERN. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME;  OR,  A  STORY  FOE  HUSBANDS,    .      9 

VISITING  AND  VISITORS, .        .    43 

OUR  FIRST  NURSE, 47 

THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GREAT  ROCK  IN  A  WEARY  LAND,       .    52 

To  LITERARY  ASPIRANTS, 53 

SUMMER  TRAVEL, 56 

A  GENTLE  HINT, .59 

A  STORY  FOR  OLD  HUSBANDS  WITH  YOUNG  WIVES,    .        .    59 

BREAKFAST  AT  THE  PAXES 65 

GIRLS'  BOARDING-SCHOOLS, 68 

CLOSET  MEDITATIONS 71 

FEMININE  VIEW  OF  NAPOLEON  AS  A  HUSBAND,  .        .        .73 

"  FIRST  PURE," 79 

HOLIDAY  THOUGHTS, 82 

A  HEADACHE, 85 

HAS  A  MOTHER  A  EIGHT  TO  HER  CHILDREN?       .        .        .87 
"AND  YE  SHALL  CALL  THE  SABBATH  A  DELIGHT/'      .        .    89 

"COME  ox,  MACDUFF," 93 

LOOK  ALOFT, 95 

KNICKERBOCKER  AND  TRI-MOUNTAIN, 98 

THE  BOSTON  WOMAN 100 

THE  NEW  YORK  MALE,    .        .        .        .       .        .        .        .101 

THE  BOSTON  MALE, 102 

MY  OLD  INKSTAND  AND  I, 103 

THE  SOUL  AND  THE  STOMACH, 106 

AWE-FUL  THOUGHTS, 107 

A  WORD  TO  PARENTS  AND  TEACHERS,  .        .        .        .       .108 

LADY  DOCTORS, Ill 

THE  CHERUB  IN  THE  OMNIBUS, 112 

FANNY  FORD, 114 

MORAL  MOLASSES, 210 

A  WORD  TO  SHOPKEEPERS, 212 

A  MUCH-NEEDED  KIND  OF  MINISTER'S  WIFE,      .        .        .  215 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

PARENT  AND  CHILD, 217 

LAST  BACHELOR  HOURS  OF  TOM  PAX, 220 

TOM  PAX'S  CONJUGAL  SOLILOQUY, 222 

TEA  AND  DARNING -NEEDLES  FOR  Two,        ....  226 

A  HOUSE  WITHOUT  A  BABY, 232 

GLANCES  AT  PHILADELPHIA,  No.  1, 233 

GLANCES  AT  PHILADELPHIA,  No.  2, 23T 

GLANCES  AT  PHILADELPHIA,  No.  8, 242 

GLANCES  AT  PHILADELPHIA,  No.  4, 246 

IN  THE  DUMPS, 249 

PEEPS  FROM  UNDER  A  PARASOL, 252 

THE  CONFESSION  Box, 263 

A  WORD  TO  PARENTS  AND  TEACHERS, 266 

BREAKFAST, 268 

GREENWOOD  AND  MOUNT  AUBURN, 2C9 

GETTING  UP  THE  WRONG  WAY, 272 

A  HOT  DAY, 277 

FUNERAL  NOTES, 278 

THE  "FAVORITE"  CHILD, 282 

A  QUESTION  AND  ITS  ANSWER, 283 

WINTER, 284 

A  GAUNTLET  FOR  THE  MEN, 286 

SOLILOQUY  OF  A  LITERARY  HOUSEKEEPER,    ....  289 

A. BREAKFAST-TABLE  KEVERIE, 290 

A  GLANCE  AT  A  CHAMELEON  SUBJECT,         .        .        .        .295 

FACTS  FOR  UNJUST  CRITICS, 297 

TRY  AGAIN, 301 

FAIR  PLAY, 302 

To  GENTLEMEN, 305 

To  THE  LADIES, 307 

MATRIMONIAL  ADVERTISKMKNTS, 309 

A  SABLE  SUBJECT, 310 

NEW  YORK, 313 

AIRY  COSTUMES, 315 

A  PEEP  AT  THE  OPERA, 317 

HARD  TIMES, 318 

COUNTER  IRRITATION, 321 

SUNDAY  IN  GOTHAM, 324 

ANNIVERSARY  TIME, 327 

WAYSIDE  WORDS, 330 

CHARLOTTE  BRONTE, 332 


FRESH    LEAVES, 


A  BUSINESS    MAN'S    HOME; 

OR,    A   STORY   FOR    HUSBANDS. 
CHAPTER     I. 

"  THERE'S  your  father,  children."     , 

The  piano  was  immediately  clqsed  by  the  young 
performe^  and  the.  music-stool  put  earefully  away, 
that  the  new-comer  might  have  an  unrestricted 
choice  of  seats;  a  wide  space  was  immediately 
cleared  before  the  grate  which  had  been  carefully 
replenished  with  coal  but  half  an  hour  before;  a 
stray  cricket  was  hastily  picked  up  and  pushed  be 
neath  the  sofa,  and  an  anxious  glance  was  thrown 
around  the  room  by  Mrs.  Wade  as  her  husband  en 
tered  the  room. 

"Too  much  light  here,"  said  the  latter,  as  he 
turned  down  the  gas  burner.  "  I  hate  such  a  glare. 
Waste  of  coal,  too ;  fire  enough  to  roast  an  ox,  and 
coal  seven  dollars  a  ton  ;"  and  Mr.  Wade  seized  the 
poker  and  gave  the  grate  a  vindictive  poke. 

Mrs.  Wade  sighed — she  had  too  long  been  accus 
tomed  to  such  scenes  to  do  any  thing  else.  It  was 


10  FRESH    LEAVES. 

not  the  first  time,  nor  the  second,  nor  the  hundredth, 
that  her  unwearied  endeavors  to  make  home  cheer 
ful  had  been  met  with  a  similar  repulse ;  the  young 
people,  so  gay  but  a  moment  before,  skipped,  one 
by  one,  out  of  the  room,  closing  the  door  noiselessly 
behind  them  as  culprit-like  they  glided  away. 

"  Heigh-ho,"  muttered  Mr.  Wade,  as  he  threw 
himself  down,  boots  and  all,  on  the  sofa,  "  heigh- 
ho." 

"  Does  your  head  ache  ?"  asked  his  patient  wife. 

"  I  -fl'ant  my  tea,"  growled  Mr.  Wade,  without 
deigning  a  i-eply. 

Mrs.  Wade  might  haVe  answered — most  women 
would—that  it.  bad  .Veen  rsady  this  hdf-hour.  She 
might  -a']sb '  haV*/  sa-ld  ttfat  ghe  'had  just  come  up 
from  the  kitchen,  where  she  had  been  to  see  that 
his  favorite  dish  of  toast  was  prepared  to  his  lik 
ing.  She  might  also  have  said  that  she  did  not 
like  to  order  tea  till  he  had  signified  his  wish  for 
it — but  as  I  said  before,  Mrs.  Wade  had  been  too 
long  in  school  not  to  have  learned  her  lesson  well. 
So  she  merely  touched  her  forefinger  to  the  bell,  for 
Betty  to  bring  in  the  tea. 

It  was  strong  and  hot — Mr.  Wade  could  not  de 
ny  it ; — the  milk  was  sweet ;  so  was  the  butter , 
the  toast  was  unexceptionable,  and  enough  of  it ; 
the  cake  light,  and  the  sweetmeats  unfermented. 
Poor,  ill-used  Mr.  Wade — he  was  in  that  most  pro 
voking  of  all  dilemmas  to  a  petulant  temper,  there 
was  nothing  to  fret  about. 


A    BUSINESS    MAN'S    HOME.  11 

"  There's  the  door  bell,"  he  exclaimed,  inwardly 
relieved  at  the  idea  of  an  escape-valve;  "now  I 
suppose  I  shall  be  talked  deaf  by  that  silly  Mrs. 
Jones  and  her  daughter,  or  bored  by  that  stupid  Mr. 
Forney ;  it's  very  strange  that  a  man  can  not  enjoy 
his  family  one  evening  free  from  interruption." 

No  such  thing — Mr.  Wade  was  cheated  out  of 
a  fresh  growl ;  the  new  arrival  being  a  carpet-bag, 
and  its  accessory,  Mr.  John  Doe,  a  brother-growler, 
whom  Mr.  Wade  would  rather  have  seen,  if  pos 
sible,  than  a  new  gold  dollar.  Mr.  John  Doe,  as  sal 
low  as  a  badly-preserved  pickle,  and  about  as  sweet 
— a  man  all  nerves  and  frowns — a  walking  thunder 
cloud,  muttering  vengeance  against  any  thing  ani 
mate,  or  inanimate,  which  had  the  temerity  to  bask 
in  the  sunshine.  Mr.  John  Doe,  a  worse  drug  than 
any  in  his  apothecary's  shop,  who  believed  in  the 
eternal  destruction  of  little  dead  babies ;  turned  the 
world  into  one  vast  charnel-house,  and  reversed  the 
verdict  of  Him  who  pronounced  it  "  very  good." 

"  Ah — how  d'ye  do — how  dy'e  do  ?"  said  Mr. 
Wade,  with  an  impromptu  lugubrious  whine,  as  Mr. 
Doe  ran  his  fingers  through  his  grizzled  locks,  and 
deposited  his  time-worn  carpet-bag  in  the  corner ; 
"  it  is  pleasant  to  see  a,  friend" 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,"  replied  Mr.  Doe,  low 
ering  himself  as  carefully  into  his  chair  as  if  he  was 
afraid  his  joints  would  become  unriveted ;  "  there's 
no  knowing  how  many  more  times  you  may  have 
to  say  that;  these  sudden  changes  of  weather  are 


12  FRESH    LEAVES. 

dreadful  underminers  of  a  man's  constitution.  Trav 
eling,  too,  racks  me  to  pieces ;  I  can't  sleep  in  a 
strange  bed,  nor  get  any  thing  I  can  eat  when  I 
wake,  my  appetite  is  so  delicate ; — sometimes  I  think 
it  don't  make  much  difference — we  are  poor  crea 
tures — begin  to  die  as  soon  as  we  are  born — how 
do  you  do,  Mr.  Wade?  You  look  to  me  like  a 
man  who  is  going  to  have  the  jaundice,  eye-balls 
yellow,  etc. — any  appetite  ?" 

"Not  much,"  said  Mr.  Wade,  unbuttoning  his 
lower  vest  button,  under  which  were  snugly  stowed 
away  a  pile  of  buttered  toast,  three  cups  of  tea,  and 
preserved  peaches  enough  to  make  a  farmer  sick — 
"  not  much  ; — a  man  who  works  as  hard  as  I  do,  gets 
too  exhausted  to  eat  when  it  comes  night,  or  if  he 
does,  his  food  does  not  digest ;  how's  your  family  ?" 

"  80,  so,"  muttered  Doe,  with  an  expressive 
shru^,*  "  children  are  a  great  care,  Mr.  Wade,  a 
great  care — rny  John  don't  take  that  interest  in 
the  drug  business  that  I  wish  he  did ;  he  always  has 
some  book  or  other  on  hand,  reading  •  I  am  afraid 
he  never  will  be  good  for  any  thing;  your  book 
worms  always  go  through  the  world,  knocking  their 
heads  against  facts.  I  should  n't  wonder,  after  all 
my  care,  if  he  turned  out  a  poor  miserable  author ; 
sometimes  I  think  what  is  to  be,  will  be,  and  there's 
no  use  trying." 

"  Is  not  that  fatalism  ?"  quietly  interposed  Mrs. 
Wade,  blushing  the  next  moment  that  she  had  so 
far  departed  from  "  The  Married  Woman's  Guide," 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  13 

as  to  question  an  opinion  which  her  husband  had 
Indorsed  by  his  silence.  "  Children  are  a  great  care, 
'tis  true,  but  it  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  care 
brought  its  own  sweet  reward." 

Mr.  Doe  wheeled  round  to  look  in  the  face  this 
meek  wife,  whose  disappointed  heart,  turning  to  her 
children  for  that  comfort  which  she  had  in  vain 
looked  for  from  her  husband,  could  ill  brook  that  the 
value  of  this  coveted  treasure  should  have  such  de 
preciating  mention. 

'•Pshaw!  what  signify  words?"  said  her  hus 
band.  "I  hate  argument;  besides,  women  can't 
argue — every  body  knows  that ;  and  every  body 
knows  that  if  a  man  wants  his  children  to  do,  or  be, 
one  thing,  they  are  sure  to  do,  or  be,  just  the  oppo 
site.  I've  no  doubt  it  will  turn  out  just  so  with 
ours ;  there  is  no  counting  on  'em.  In  my  day,  if  a 
man  was  a  farmer,  his  son  was  a  farmer  after  him, 
and  never  thought  of  being  any  thing  else.  Now 
adays,  children  have  to  be  consulted  as  to  *  their 
bent.'  Fudge — fiddlestick;  their  bent  is  for  mis 
chief  and  dodging  work,  and  a  tight  rein  and  a  good 
smart  rod  is  the  best  cure  for  it." 

Just  at  this  point  Mr.  Doe  gave  a  dismal  groan, 
and  doubled  himself  up  like  a  jack-knife.  "  A  touch 
of  my  old  complaint,"  said  he,  holding  on  to  his 
waist-band.  "  Rheumatism — it  will  carry  me  off 
some  day.  Mrs.  Wade,  if  you  will  be  so  good  as 
to  look  hi  my  carpet-bag,  you  will  find  a  plaster 
which  I  never  travel  without;  and  I  will  trouble 


14  FRESH    LEAVES. 

you,  Mrs.  Wade,  to  have  my  bed  warmed,  and  a  fire 
in  the  room  where  you  intend  I  should  sleep ;  and 
if  there  should  be  any  cracks  in  the  windows,  will 
you  have  the  goodness  to  nail  up  a  blanket  over 
them?  and  I  would  like  a  very  warm  comforter,  if 
you  please,  and  a  jug  of  hot  water  at  my  feet,  if  it 
would  not  be  too  much  trouble." 

u  Of  course  not,"  said  Mr.  Wade,  settling  himself 
very  comfortably  down  into  his  ample  easy-chair ; 
"of  course  not;  Mrs.  Wade,  won't  you  attend  to 
it?" 

"  And,  Mrs.  Wade,  if  you'd  be  so  kind  as  to  put 
the  feather  bed  uppermost,  and  give  me  cotton  sheets 
instead  of  linen;  I  should  also  prefer  a  hair  to  a 
feather  pillow :  I  consider  feathers  too  heating  for 
my  head ;  I  am  obliged  to  be  careful  of  my  head." 

"  Certainly,"  repeated  Mr.  Wade.  "  Mrs  Wade 
will  see  to  it."  And  as  she  moved  out  of  the  room 
to  execute  these  orders,  these  two  despondent  Si 
amese  drew  their  chairs  closer  together,  to  bemoan 
the  short-comings  of  two  of  the  most  long-suffering 
wives  who  ever  wore  themselves  to  skeletons,  try 
ing  to  please  husbands  who  were  foreordained  not 
to  be  pleased. 

CHAPTER    II. 

MOTHER'S  room !  How  we  look  back  to  it  in 
after  years,  when  she  who  sanctified  it  is  herself 
among  the  sanctified.  How  well  we  remember  the 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  15 

ample  cushioned  chair,  with  its  all-embracing  arms, 
none  the  worse  in  our  eyes  for  having  rocked  to 
sleep  so  many  little  forms  now  scattered  far  and 
wide,  divided  from  us,  perhaps,  by  barriers  more 
impassable  than  the  cold,  blue  sea.  Mother's  room 
— where  the  sun  shone  in  so  cheerily  upon  the  flow 
ering  plants  in  the  low,  old-fashioned  window-seats, 
which  seemed  to  bud  and  blossom  at  the  least  touch 
of  her  caressing  fingers ;  on  which  no  blight  or  mil 
dew  ever  came;  no  more  than  on  the  love  which 
outlived  all  our  childish  waywardness — all  our  child 
ish  folly.  The  cozy  sofa  upon  which  childish  feet 
were  never  forbidden  to  climb ;  upon  which  curly 
heads  could  dream,  unchidden,  the  fairy  dreams  of 
childhood.  The  closet  which  garnered  tops,  and 
dolls,  and  kites,  and  whips,  and  toys,  and  upon 
whose  upper  shelf  was  that  infallible  old-fashioned 
panacea  for  infancy's  aches  and  pains — brimstone 
and  molasses  !  The  basket,  too,  where  was  always 
the  very  string  we  wanted ;  the  Jight-stand  round 
which  we  gathered,  and  threaded  needles  (would 
we  had  threaded  thousands  more)  for  eyes  dimmed 
in  our  service;  and  the  cheerful  face  that  smiled 
across  it  such  loving  thanks. 

Mother's  room  1  where  our  matronly  feet  returned 
when  we  were  mothers ;  where  we  lifted  our  little 
ones  to  kiss  the  wrinkled  face,  beautiful  with  its  halo 
of  goodness ;  where  we  looked  on  well  pleased  to 
see  the  golden  locks  we  worshiped,  mingling  lov 
ingly  with  the  silver  hairs;  where,  as  the  fond 


16  FRESH    LEAVES. 

grand-mamma  produced,  in  alarming  profusion, 
cakes  and  candies  for  the  little  pets,  we  laughingly 
reminded  her  of  our  baby  days,  when  she  wisely 
told  us  such  things  were  "  unwholesome ;"  where 
our  baby  caps,  yellow  with  time,  ferreted  from  some 
odd  bag  or  closet,  were  tried  on  our  own  babies' 
heads,  and  we  sat,  wondering  where  the  months 
and  years  had  flown  between  then  and  now ;  and 
looking  forward,  half-sighing,  to  just  such  a  picture, 
when  we  should  play  what  seemed  to  us  now,  with 
our  smooth  skins,  round  limbs,  and  glossy  locks, 
such  an  impossible  part. 

Mother's  room!  where  we  watched  beside  her 
patient  sick-bed  through  the  long  night,  gazing 
hopelessly  at  the  flickering  taper,  listening  to  the 
pain-extorted  groan,  which  no  human  skill,  no  hu 
man  love,  could  avert  or  relieve ;  waiting  with  her 
the  dawning  of  that  eternal  day,  seen  through  a 
mist  of  tears,  bounded  by  no  night. 

Mother's  room  !  where  the  mocking  light  strayed 
in  through  the  half-opened  shutters,  upon  her  who, 
for  the  first  time,  was  blind  to  our  tears,  and  deaf 
to  our  cries ;  where  busy  memory  could  bring  back 
to  us  no  look,  no  word,  no  tone,  no  act  of  hers,  not 
freighted  with  God-like  love.  Alas ! — alas  for  us 
then,  if,  turning  the  tablets,  they  showed  us  this  long 
debt  of  love  unappreciated — unpaid  ! 

No  blossoming  plants  luxuriated  in  the  windows 
of  Mr.  Wade's  house  ;  no  picture  attracted  attention 
upon  the  walls ;  with  the  exception  of  a  huge  map 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  17 

of  the  United  States  in  the  hall,  their  blank  white 
ness  was  pitilessly  unrelieved.  The  whole  house 
seemed  to  be  hopelessly  given  up  to  the  household 
god — utility.  If  Mrs.  Wade  ever  had  any  woman 
ish  leaning  toward  the  ornamental,  she  had  long 
since  learned  to  suppress  it ;  and  what  woman, 
how  poor  soever  she  may  be,  does  not  make  some 
feeble  attempt  to  brighten  up  the  little  spot  she  calls 
home  ?  Beautiful  to  me,  for  this  reasonr  is  the  crude 
picture,  the  cheap  plaster-cast,  or  the  china  mug 
with  its  dried  grass,  or  the  blue  ribbon  which  ties 
back  the  coarse  but  clean  white  curtain  under  hum 
ble  roofs.  Who  shall  say  that  such  things  have  not 
a  moral  influence — a  moral  significance  ?  Who 
shall  say  that  there  is  not  more  hope  of  that  young 
man  on  the  walls  of  whose  bachelor  attic  hangs  a 
landscape,  or  a  sweet  female  head,  though  not  "  by 
an  old  master  ?"  Who  that  has  been  so  unfortunate 
as  to  sojourn  in  that  mockery  of  a  home,  called  a 
boarding-house,  has  not,  when  passing  through  the 
halls,  and  by  the  open  doors  of  rooms,  formed  favor 
able  or  unfavorable  opinions  of  its  occupants  from 
these  mute  indications  of  taste  arid  character  ?  Let 
no  one,  particularly  if  he  has  children,  wait  till  he 
can  command  the  most  costly  adornments;  have 
one  picture,  have  one  statue,  have  one  vase,  if  no 
more,  for  little  eyes  to  look  at,  for  little  tongues  to 
prattle  about. 

If  Mr.  Wade  had  but  understood  this !     If  he  had 
but  brushed  from  his  heart  the  cobwebs  of  his  count- 
2 


18  FRESH    LEAVES. 

ing-room — for  he  had  a  heart,  buried  as  it  was 
under  the  world's  rubbish ;  if  he  had  not  circum 
scribed  his  thoughts,  wishes,  hopes,  aims,  by  the 
narrow  horizon  of  his  ledger.  If — If!  Dying  lips 
falter  out  that  word  regretfully ; — alas  !  that  we 
should  learn  to  live  only  when  we  come  to  die ! 

I  have  said  Mr.  Wade  had  a  heart,  ossified  as  it 
now  was  by  the  all-absorbing  love  of  gain.  At  the 
age  of  seven  years,  he  was  left,  with  a  younger 
brother,  the  only  legacy  to  a  heart-broken,  invalid 
mother,  who  found  herself  suddenly  thrown  upon 
the  world  for  that  charity  that  she  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  bestow.  To  say  that  she  found  none, 
would  be  false  ;  the  world  is  not  all  bad  ;  but  there 
were  months  in  which  Mr.  Wade,  then  a  bright, 
handsome  lad,  was  glad  to  carry  home  to  her  and 
his  little  brother,  the  refuse  food  of  the  neighbors' 
kitchens.  They  who  have  felt  in  early  youth  the 
griping  hand  of  poverty,  unfortunately  learn  to  at 
tach  undue  value  to  the  possession  of  money.  Day 
after  day,  as  the  boy  witnessed  his  feeble  mother 
struggling  vainly  with  her  fate — day  after  day  the 
thought,  for  her  sake  to  become  rich,  haunted  his 
waking  dreams  and  his  boyish  pillow.  With  his 
arms  about  her  neck,  he  would  picture  the  blessings 
and  comforts  of  a  future  home,  which  his  more 
hopeful  eyes  saw  in  the  distance.  The  road  to  it,  to 
be  sure,  was  rough  and  thorny,  but  still  it  was  there ; 
no  cloud  of  adversity  could  wholly  obscure  it  to  the 
boy's  vision;  and  even  in  the  darkest  night,  when 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  19 

he  woke,  in  fancy  the  lamps  gleamed  brightly  from 
its  curtained  windows ;  and  so  the  boy  smothered 
down  his  swelling  heart,  when  the  refuse  food  was 
tossed  carelessly  into  his  beggar's  basket,  and  was 
thankful  for  the  little  job  which  brought  him  even  a 
penny  to  place  in  her  Jiand,  as  an  earnest  of  what 
should  come — Grod  willing ;  and  at  night,  .when  the 
younger  brother  shivered  with  cold,  John  would 
chafe  his  chilled  feet,  and,  taking  him  in  his  arms, 
soothe  him  to  blissful  slumbers.  That  the  world 
should  ever  chill  such  a  heart!  That  the  armor 
buckled  over  it  in  so  righteous  a  cause,  should  con 
tract  around  it  and  prove  but  its  shroud  ! 

Nobly  the  boy  struggled :  they  who  are  not  fas 
tidious  as  to  the  means,  seldom  fail  of  securing  the 
result  they  aim  at.  John  Wade's  pride  never  stood 
like  a  lion  in  his  path ;  he  heeded  not  the  super 
cilious  glance  or  careless  tone  of  his  employers,  so 
that  he  received  the  hard-earned  reward  of  his  toil. 
At  length,  from  loving  money  for  what  it  would 
bring,  he  learned  to  love  it  for  its  own  sake ;  and 
when  death  removed  from  him  those  for  whom  he 
toiled,  he  toiled  on  for  love  of  the  shining  dross. 
Pity  that  gold  should  always  bring  with  it  the 
canker — covetousness. 


CHAPTER     III. 

"  I  HAVE  a  great  mind  to  go  to  bed,"  said  Susy 
Wade,  yawning ;   "  I  'rn  not  sleepy,   either,  but  I 


20  FRESH    LEAVES. 

don't  know  what  do  do  with  myself;  there  's  that 
tiresome  Mr.  Doe  down  stairs — he  croaks,  and 
'croaks,  and  croaks,  till  I  feel  almost  as  sick  as  he 
pretends  to.  Now  he  will  keep  mother  nursing  up 
his  rheumatism,  as  he  calls  it,  till  ten  o'clock,  when 
he  is  no  more  sick  than  she  is,  nor  half  so  much ; 
mother  never  complains  when  any  thing  ails  her ; 
but  I  am  not  like  mother ;  I  am  not  patient  a  bit 
Were  it  not  for  mother,  Neddy,  I  should  like  to  sail 
way  off  across  the  ocean,  and  never  come  back ;  I 
get  so  tired  here  at  home,  and  I  know  she  does,  too, 
though  she  never  says  any  thing;  sometimes  she 
sighs  such  a  long  sigh,  when  she  thinks  nobody 
hears  her ;  I  should  rather  she  would  cry  outright ; 
it  always  makes  me  feel  better  to  have  a  good  cry. 
I  wish  that  our  father  was  like  Carey  Hunt's  father." 
"  So  do  I,1'  said  Neddy,  fixing  his  humming-top 
— "  so  do  I — they  have  such  fun  there.  Tom  told 
me  that  his  father  played  games  with  them  even 
ings,  and  showed  them  how  to  make  kites,  and 
brought  them  home  story-books,  and  read  them 
aloud,  and  sometimes  the  whole  family  go  out 
together  to  some  place  of  amusement.  I  wonder 
what  makes  our  father  so  different  from  Tom  Hunt's 
father  ?  Tommy  always  runs  down  street  to  meet 
his  father  when  he  comes  home,  and  tells  him  what 
has  happened  on  the  play-ground ;  I  wonder  why 
our  father  never  talks  to  us  about  such  things  ?  I 
wonder  how  father  felt  when  he  was  a  boy — don't 
you  suppose  he  ever  played  ?" 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  21 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Susy,  mournfully ;  "  I'm 
only  fifteen,  but  I  mean  to  get  married  just  as  soon 
as  I  can,  and  then  I  won't  have  such  a  gloomy 
house,  and  you  shall  come  and  live  with  me,  Neddy." 

"  But  mother — "  said  Neddy. 

"  0,  mother  shall  come  to  see  us  all  the  time," 
said  Susy  ;  "  won't  we  have  fun  ?" 

"  But  perhaps  your  husband  will  be  a  sober  man, 
like  father,  and  won't  want  company,  only  people 
like  Mr.  Doe." 

"  But  my  husband  will  be  young,  you  little  goose," 
said  Susy. 

"  Well — wasn't  father  young  when  mother  mar 
ried  him  ?"  said  the  persistent  Neddy,  whirling  off 
his  top. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Susy,  with  a  sigh,  "  but  it 
don't  seem  as  if  he  ever  was.  Where's  the  Arabian 
Nights,  Neddy,  that  you  borrowed  of  Tom  Hunt  ? 
let's  read  a  story." 

"Father  made  me  carry  it  back,"  said  Neddy; 
tl  he  said  it  was  nonsense,  and  I  shouldn't  read  it." 

"  That's  just  why  I  like  it,"  said  Susy  ;  "  of  course, 
nobody  believes  it  true — and  I'm  so  tired  of  sense  ! 
Isn't  there  any  thing  up  in  the  book-rack  there, 
Neddy  ?" 

"  I'll  see,"  said  Neddy,  stretching  his  neck  up  out 
of  his  clean  white  collar — "  I'll  see — here's  Moral 
Philosophy,  Key  to  Daboll's  Arithmetic,  Sermons 
by  Rev.  John  Pyne,  Essays  by  Calvin  Croaker, 
Guide  to  Young  Wives,  Rules  for  Eating,  Walking 


22  FRESH    LEAVES. 

and  Talking,  Complete  Letter  Writer,  Treatise  on 
Pneumatics,  Buchan's  Domestic  Medicine.  Which 
will  you  have  ?"  asked  Neddy,  with  a  comical  whine. 

"  Hush !"  said  Susy,  "  there's  father's  step." 

Mr.  Wade  had  come  up  to  get  his  soft  lamb's- 
wool  slippers  for  Mr.  Doe,  that  gentleman  having 
experienced  a  chill  in  his  left  toe  joint. 

"  Playing  top,"  said  he,  contemptuously,  looking 
at  Neddy ;  "at  your  age,  sir,  I  was  wheeling  stone 
for  a  mason,  in  the  day-time,  and  studying  arith 
metic  evenings.  Where's  your  Daboll,  sir  ?  Study 
your  pound  and  pence  table ;  that's  what's  to  be 
the  making  of  you ;  how  do  you  expect  to  become 
a  man  of  business  without  that  ?  You'll  never  drive 
a  good  bargain — you'll  be  cheated  out  of  your  eye- 
teeth.  Get  your  Daboll,  sir,  and  Susy,  do  you  hear 
him  say  it.  Tops  are  for  babies,  sir  •  a  boy  of  your 
age  ought  to  be  almost  as  much  a  man  as  his  fa 
ther.  How  should  I  look  playing  top  ?  God  didn't 
make  the  world  to  play  in."  And  Mr.  Wade  and 
his  lamb's-wool  slippers  slipped  down  stairs. 

"  He  didn't  make  it  for  a  work-shop  either," 
thought  Susy,  as  she  took  down  the  offensive  Daboll. 

They  to  whom  the  word  father  comprises  all  that 
is  reverent,  tender,  companionable  and  sweet,  may 
refuse  to  recognize  the  features  of  this  portrait  as  a 
true  likeness  of  the  relation  for  which  it  stands ; 
they  may  well  doubt — they  whose  every  childish 
hope  and  fear  was  freely  confided  to  a  pitying,  lov 
ing,  sympathizing  heart — they  whose  generous  im- 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  23 

pulses  were  never  chilled  by  the  undeserved  breath 
of  suspicion  and  distrust — they  whose  overflowing 
love  was  never  turned  back  in  a  lava  tide  to  devas 
tate  their  fresh  young  hearts — happy  they  for  whom 
memory  daguerreotypes  no  such  mournful  picture ! 
Still,  let  them  not  for  that  reason  doubt,  that  through 
the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land,  are  men  and 
women  who  look  back  sorrowing  on  what  they 
might  have  been,  but  for  their  blighted  childhood/ 

"Blessed  night!"  the  words  often  fell  from  Mrs. 
Wade's  lips,  as  she  closed  her  chamber-door,  and, 
laying  her  weary  head  upon  her  pillow,  sought 
oblivion  in  sleep. 

"  Blessed  night;"  the  children  did  not  hear  it,  for 
whose  sakes  she  often  repressed  the  rising  sigh,  and 
sent  back  to  their  fountain  the  scalding  tears,  and 
whose  future,  as  her  health  and  strength  declined, 
she  would  have  trembled  to  contemplate,  but  for 
her  faith  in  God. 

He  did  not  hear  ik— one  kind  word  from  whom, 
one  look,  or  smile,  to  say  that  he  appreciated  all  her 
untiring  efforts,  would  have  brought  back  the  roses 
of  health  to  that  faded  cheek.  He  did  not  hear  it, 
as  he  sat  there  over  the  midnight-fire,  with  groaning 
Mr.  Doe,  ringing  the  changes  on  dollars  and  cents, 
dollars  and  cents,  which  had  come  between  him  and 
the  priceless  love  of  those  warm  hearts. 

Ay — Blessed  night ! 


24  FRESH    LEAVES. 

CHAPTER     IV. 

"  I  THINK  it  must  be  time  for  Henry  to  come 
home,"  and  the  speaker  glanced  at  a  little  gold 
watch  on  the  mantel  What  a  noise  those  chil 
dren  are  making.  I  told  them  to  keep  still,  but  after 
all,  I  'm  glad  that  they  didn't  mind  me ;  the  most 
pitiful  sight  on  earth  to  me,  is  a  child  with  a  feeble 
body  and  a  large  head,  who  never  plays.  Let  them 
romp — broken  chairs  are  easier  mended  than  broken 
spines ;  who  would  be  a  slave  to  an  upholstery  shop, 
or  a  set  of  porcelain ;  who  would  keep  awake  at 
night  to  watch  the  key  which  locks  up  a  set  of  gold 
or  silver  ?  Who  would  mew  children  up  in  the 
nursery  for  fear  of  a  parlor  carpet  ?  My  parlor  is 
not  too  good  for  my  children  to  play  in,  and  I  hope 
it  never  will  be.  Now  I  will  go  down  and  take  out 
some  cake  for  tea;  how  glad  I  am  Henry  loves 
eake,  because  I  know  so  well  how  to  make  it ;  who 
would  have  thought  I  should  have  had  such  a  good 
husband,  and  such  a  happy  home — >poor  mamma — 
and  she  deserves  it  so  much  better  than  I.  Some 
times  I  think  I  ought  never  to  have  left  home  while 
she  lived,  but  have  staid  to  comfort  her.  Oh  my 
children  must  be  very  — very  happy;  childhood 
comes  but  once — but  once." 

So  said  Mary  Hereford,  Mr.  Wade's  married 
daughter,  as  she  picked  up  the  toys,  and  picture- 
books,  and  *  strings,  and  marbles,  with  which  her 
romping  children  had  strewed  her  chamber  floor. 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  25 

Mary  Hereford  was  no  beauty.  She  had  neither 
golden  brown,  nor  raven  hair;  her  skin  was  not 
transparently  white,  nor  her  eyes  dazzlingly  bright, 
nor  her  foot  and  hand  miraculously  small.  She  was 
simply  a  plump,  healthy,  rosy,  cheerful  little  cricket 
of  a  woman — singing  ever  at  her  own  hearth-stone 
— proud  of  her  husband — proud  of  her  children, 
knowing  no  weariness  in  their  service.  Many  a 
beautiful  woman  has  wrung  her  white  hands  in  vain 
for  the  love  which  lent  wings  to  this  unhandsome, 
but  still  lovely  little  wife,  dignified  even  the  most 
common-place  employment,  and  made  her  heart  a 
temple  for  sweet  and  holy  thoughts  to  gather. 

"Yes,  there  comes  Henry  now,"  said  Mary,  and 
before  the  words  were  well  out  of  her  mouth,  her 
husband  held  her  at  arm's  length,  and  looked  into 
her  face. 

"  You  have  been  sewing  too  steadily,  little  wife," 
said  he  ;  "  I  must  take  you  out  for  a  walk  after  tea. 
I  shall  get  a  sempstress  to  help  you  if  these  children 
out-grow  their  clothes  so  fast." 

Mary  laughed  a  merry  little  laugh ;  "  No  such 
thing — I  am  not  tired  a  bit — at  least  not  now  you 
are  here ;  beside,  don't  you  work  hard  down  in  that 
close  counting-room,  your  poor  head  bothered  with 
figures  all  day  ?  Do  you  suppose  a  wife  is  to  fold 
her  hands  idly,  that  her  husband  may  get  gray 
hairs?  No — you  and  I  will  grow  old  together,  but 
that  is  a  long  way  off  yet,  you  know,"  and  Mary 
shook  her  brown  hair  about  her  face.  "  Come — 
now  for  tea.  I  have  such  nice  cakes  for  you ;  the 


26  FRESH    LEAVES. 

children  have  been  so  good  and  affectionate ;  to  be 
sure  they  tear  their  aprons  occasionally,  and  perhaps 
break  a  cup  or  plate,  but  what  is  that,  if  we  are  only 
kind  and  happy  ?  Oh,  it  is  blessed  to  be  happy  1" 
And  Mary  would  have  thrown  her  arms  around  her 
husband's  neck,  but  unfortunately  she  was  too 
short. 

The  smoking  tea  and  savory  cakes  were  set  upon 
the  table — Followed  the  children,  bouncing  and  rosy 
— fairly  brightening  up  the  room  like  a  gay  bouquet. 
With  one  on  either  knee,  Henry  Hereford  listened, 
well  pleased,  to  tales  of  soaring  kites,  and  sympa 
thized  with  disastrous  shipwrecks  of  mimic  boats, 
nor  thought  his  dignity  compromised  in  discussing 
the  question,  whether  black,  blue,  or  striped  marbles 
were  prettiest,  or  whether  a  doll  whose  eyes  were 
not  made  to  open  and  shut,  could,  by  any  stretch  of 
imagination,  be  supposed  by  its  youthful  mamma 
to  go  to  sleep.  How  priceless  is  the  balm  of  sym 
pathy  to  childhood !  The  certainty  that  no  joy  is 
too  minute,  no  grief  too  trivial  to  find  an  echo  in  the 
parental  heart.  Blessed  they — who,  like  little  chil 
dren,  are  neither  too  wise,  nor  too  old  to  lean  thus 
on  the  Almighty  Father! 

"  Where's  my  umbrella,  Susan  ?"  said  Mr.  Wade, 
"  it  is  raining,  and  I  am  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  my 
business." 

"It  is  Sunday,  Mr.  Wade;  did  you  forget  it  was 
Sunday  ?" 

"Sunday!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Wade,  in  jwell-feigned 


A    BUSINESS    MAN'S    HOME.  27 

surprise,  "we  didn't  have  salt  fish,  I  believe,  for 
dinner  yesterday." 

"No,"  replied  his  wife,  penitently,  "but  I  believe 
it  is  the  first  time  it  has  been  omitted  since  our  mar 
riage." 

"  It  was  an  omission,"  said  Mr.  Wade,  solemnly, 
as  he  laid  aside  his  hat  and  coat.  "  Sunday,  is  it,  Mrs. 
Wade,  I  wish  I  had  n't  got  up  so  early — I  suppose 
you  are  going  to  take  the  children  off  to  church,  are 
you  not  ?  I  'd  like  to  be  quiet,  and  go  to  sleep  till 
dinner  time." 

"  Perhaps  you  would  step  over  to  Mary's  some 
part  of  the  day,"  suggested  his  wife.  "  She  came 
here  yesterday  to  leave  some  nice  jelly  that  she  had 
been  making  for  me,  and  said  you  had  not  been 
there  for  nearly  two  months." 

"  No,"  replied  Mr.  Wade,  "  I  had  as  lief  encoun 
ter  a  hornet's  nest  as  those  children  of  Mary's ;  they 
are  just  like  eels,  slipping  up  and  slipping  down ; 
slipping  in,  and  slipping  out;  never  still.  Mary  is 
spoiling  them.  The  last  time  I  was  there  I  found 
her  playing  puss  in  the  corner  with  them ;  puss  in 
the  corner,  Mrs.  Wade! — how  does  she  expect  to 
keep  them  at  a  proper  distance,  and  make  them  rev 
erence  her,  as  your  Bible  calls  it,  if  she  is  going  to 
frolic  with  them  that  way  ?  and  Henry  is  not  a  whit 
better;  they  are  neither  fit  to  bring  up  a  family. 
Mary  used  to  be  a  sedate,  steady  girl,  before  she  was 
married ;  I  don't  know  that  I  remember  having  ever 


28  FRESH    LEAVES. 

heard  her  laugh  in  her  life,  while  she  was  at  home ; 
I  can't  think  what  has  changed  her  so." 

His  wife  drooped  her  head,  but  made  no  answer. 

The  cold,  hard  man  before  her  had  no  key  with 
which  to  unlock  the  buried  sorrows  of  those  long 
weary  years  which  Susan  Wade  was  at  that  mo 
ment  passing  in  review. 

"Yes;  I  can't  think  what  has  changed  her  so," 
resumed  Mr.  Wade ;  "I  think  it  must  be  Henry's 
fault — she  was  brought  up  so  carefully  ;  but  after  all, 
a  great  deal  depends  upon  the  sort  of  man  a  woman 
marries.  I  dare  say,"  added  he,  complacently,  uyou 
would  have  been  a  very  different  woman  had  you 
married  any  body  but  me." 

"  Yery  likely,"  answered  his  wife,  mournfully. 

"  To  be  sure,  you  would ;  I  am  glad  you  have  the 
good  sense  to  see  it ;  I  consider  that  a  woman  is 
but  a  cipher  up  to  the  time  she  is  married— her  hus 
band  then  invests  her  with  a  certain  importance, 
always  subservient  to  his,  of  course.  Then  a  great 
deal  depends,  too,  on  the  way  a  man  begins  with 
his  wife.  Now  I  always  had  a  great  respect  for  Dr. 
Johnson,  for  the  sensible  manner  in  which  he  set 
tled  matters  on  his  wedding  day  ;  it  seems  that  he 
and  his  wife  were  to  ride  horseback  to  the  church 
where  they  were  to  be  married.  Soon  after  start 
ing  his  bride  told  him,  first,  that  they  rode  too  fast, 
then,  too  slow.  '  This  won't  do,'  said  he  to  him 
self;  'I  must  begin  with  this  woman  as  I  mean  to 
go  on ;  she  must  keep  my  pace,  not  I  hers :'  and  so, 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  29 

putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  galloped  out  of  sight ; 
when  she  rejoined  him  at  the  church-door,  she  was 
in  tears — in  a  proper  state  of  submission — he  never 
had  any  trouble  with  her  afterward ;  it  was  more 
necessary  as  she  was  a  widow ;  they  need  an  uncom 
mon  tight  rein.  Sensible  old  fellow,  that  Johnson. 
I  don't  know  that  I  ever  enjoyed  any  thing  more 
than  his  answer  to  a  lady  who  was  going  into  ecsta 
sies  at  some  performance  she  had  seen,  and  won 
dered  that  the  doctor  did  not  agree  with  her ;  l  My 
dear,'  said  he,  'you  must  remember  that  you  are 
a  dunce,  and,  therefore,  very  easily  pleased.'  Very 
good,  upon  my  word — ha — ha — very  good ;  c  Doctor 
Johnson's  Life'  is  the  only  book  I  ever  had  patience 
to  read ;  he  understood  the  sex ;  ha — ha — upon  my 
word,  very  good" — and  Mr.  Wade  rubbed  his  spec 
tacles  with  such  animation  that  he  rubbed  out  one 
of  the  glasses. 

"  Two  and  sixpence  for  getting  excited  !"  said  he, 
as  he  picked  up  the  fragments;  "well — it  is  a  little 
luxury  I  don't  often  indulge  in ;  but  really  that  old 
Johnson  was  such  a  fine  old  fellow — I  like  him. 
Now  take  the  children  off  to  church,  Susan ;  I  want 
to  go  sleep." 

"  I  hope  he  may  never  be  sorry  for  sending  that 
pale,  sickly  woman  out  in  such  a  driving  rain  as 
this,"  muttered  Betty,  as  her  mistress  walked  over 
the  wet  pavements  to  church.  "  If  there's  a  selfisher 
man  than  Mr.  Wade,  I'd  like  to  know  it ;  well,  he 
won't  have  her  long,  and  then  maybe  he  '11  think  of 


30  FRESH    LEAVES. 

it.  I  would  have  left  here  long  ago  if  it  had  not 
been  for  her ;  it 's  work — work — work — with  him, 
and  no  thanks,  and  that 's  what  is  fretting  the  soul 
out  of  her ;  she  can't  please  him  with  all  her  trying. 
And  Miss  Susan  and  Neddy — cooped  up  here  like 
birds  in  a  cage,  and  never  allowed  to  speak  above 
their  breath  ;  they  '11  fly  through  the  bars  sometime, 
if  he  don't  open  the  door  wider ;  and  Miss  Susan 
getting  to  be  a  young  lady,  too — looking  as  solemn 
as  a  sexton,  when  she  ought  to  be  frisking  and  frol 
icking  about  like  all  other  innocent  young  creturs. 
I  used  to  get  her  down  here,  and  make  molasses 
candy  for  her,  but  she  has  out-grown  candy,  now — 
well,  I  don't  know  what  will  come  of  it  all.  At  her 
age  I  was  going  to  husking  and  quilting  frolics,  and 
singing-school;  bless  me — what  a  time  I  used  to 
have  coming  through  the  snow-drifts.  I  really  be 
lieve  Isaiah  Pettibone  used  to  upset  the  sleigh  on  pur 
pose.  I  suppose  I  might  have  married  him  if  I  had 
been  as  forrard  as  some  girls — leastways  I  know  he 
gave  me  a  paper  heart,  with  a  dart  stuck  through 
it;  but  when  I  look  at  Mr.  "Wade,  I  say  it  is  all 
right — ten  to  one  he  might  have  turned  out  just  such 
a  cranky  curmudgeon.  People  say  that  for  every 
bad  husband  in  the  world,  there's  a  bad  wife  some 
where  to  balance  it ;  I  don't  believe  it — but,  anyhow, 
if  there  is,  I  wish  they'd  each  torment  their  own 
kind,  and  not  be  killing  off  such  patient  creturs  a? 
Mrs.  Wade.  I'll  go  up  stairs  and  put  her  slippers  to 
the  fjre,  and  then  get  something  nice  and  hot  for  her 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  31 

to  take  when  she  comes  back.  I  used  to  think  that 
a  poor  servant-girl  was  not  of  much  account  in  the 
world — I  don't  think  so  since  I  came  here  to  live ; 
I  know  it  is  a  comfort  to  Mrs.  Wade  to  feel  that 
somebody  in  the  house  is  caring  for  her,  who  is  al 
ways  doing  for  other  people ;  and  though  she  never 
says  a  word  about  her  troubles,  and  I  am  not  the 
girl  to  let  her  know  that  I  see  them,  yet  the  way  in 
which  she  says,  l  Thank  you,  Betty ;  you  are  always 
kind  and  thoughtful,'  shows  me  that,  humble  as  I 
am,  she  leans  on  me,  and  pays  me  a  hundred  times 
over  for  any  little  thing  I  do  for  her.  I  tlu'nk,  after 
all,  that  God  made  nobody  of  so  little  account  that 
he  could  not  at  some  time  or  other  help  somebody 
else.  There's  the  bell,  now !  Mercy  on  us !  there's 
that  croaking  raven,  Mr.  Doe,  coming  here  to  din 
ner  j  he  will  be  sure  to  eat  up  every  thing  good  that 
I  make  for  Mrs.  Wade.  I  wonder  how  a  man  who 
is  eternally  grumbling  and  growling  at  every  thing 
the  Lord  has  made,  can  have  the  face  to  gormandize 
His  good  things,  as  Mr.  Doe  does.  I'd  either  let 
'em  alone,  or  say  Thank  you— he  don't  do  nary  one." 

CHAPTER    V. 

THE  bleak  winds  of  March  were  abroad,  causing 
even  the  healthy  and  rugged  to  shrink  from  their 
piercing  breath,  and  fold  more  closely  around  their 
shivering  limbs  the  warm  garments  of  winter ;  while 
the  delicate  invalid,  warned  by  his  irritated  lungs, 


32  FRESH    LEAVES. 

ventured  not  beyond  the  equable  temperature  of  his 
closely-curtained  chamber. 

Mrs.  Wade's  accustomed  place  at  the  table  was 
vacant ;  her  busy  fingers  no  longer  kept  the  domes 
tic  treadmill  in  motion.  Ah !  how  seldom  we  feel 
till  the  "mother"  is  stricken  down,  how  never- 
ceasing  is  the  vigilance,  how  tireless  the  patience 
that  ministers  to  our  daily  wants; — dropping  noise 
less,  like  the  gentle  dew,  too  common  and  unobtru 
sive  a  blessing  to  be  noticed — till  absence  teaches  us 
its  value. 

Death  had  no  terrors  for  Mrs.  Wade.  It  was  only 
when  looking  upon  the  children  whom  she  must 
leave  behind,  that  she  prayed,  with  quivering  lips — 
"Lord,  I  believe;  help  Thou  mine  unbelief!" 

If  in  the  thorny  path  her  woman's  feet  had  trod, 
her  daughter's  trembling  feet  must  walk!  What 
human  arm  would  sustain  her  ?  what  human  voice 
whisper  words  of  cheer  ?  And  Neddy — the  impul 
sive,  generous,  warm-hearted  Neddy ;  quick  to  err 
— as  quick'  to  repent — what  human  hand  would 
weigh  justly  in  the  scales  of  praise  and  blame,  his 
daily  deeds  ?  What  hand,  save  a  mother's,  in  up 
rooting  the  weeds,  would  crush  not  the  tender 
flowers  ?  Oh,  what  mother,  while  pondering  these 
things  in  her  heart,  and  looking  round  upon  the  dear 
faces,  in  the  near  or  distant  prospect  of  dissolution, 
has  not  felt  her  heart-tendrils  tighten  around  them, 
with  a  vice-like  clasp  that  almost  defied  separation  ? 
Nature's  voice  is  clamorous ;.  but  over,  and  above, 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  33 

and  through  its  importunate  pleadings,  comes  there 
to  the  Christian  mother,  the  still,  small  whisper, 
••  My  grace  is  sufficient  for  thee!" 

Mr.  Wade  at  first  refused  to  believe  in  the  reality 
of  his  wife's  sickness.  Women,  he  said,  were  al 
ways  ailing,  and  fancying  themselves  dying.  But, 
as  the  parlor  was  vacated  for  the  chamber,  and  the 
easy-chair  for  the  bed,  and  the  doctor's  chaise 
stopped  twice  a  day  before  the  door,  and  Mrs. 
Hereford  left  her  own  little  family  to  sit  beside  her 
mother,  and  Betty  wiped  her  eyes  with  her  apron 
every  time  she  left  the  chamber  door— and,  more 
than  all,  when  Mr.  Wade's  toast  was  not  browned 
as  she  used  to  brown  it,  and  his  favorite  pudding 
was  wanting,  and  the  lamp  burned  dimly  on  the 
lonely  tea-table,  and  his  slippers  were  not  always 
in  the  right  place — he  resigned  himself  to  what 
seemed  inevitable,  with  the  air  of  a  deeply-injured 
man ;  and  slept  as  soundly  at  night,  in  the  room 
next  his  wife's,  as  if  death's  shadow  had  not  even 
then  fallen  across  the  threshold. 

At  breakfast  he  drove  Betty  distracted  with 
orders  and  counter-orders  about  egg-boiling  and 
toast-making,  after  eating  which,  he  drew  on  a  pair 
of  creaking  boots  and  an  overcoat,  and  mounted  to 
his  wife's  room,  to  go  through  the  ceremony  of  in 
quiring  "how  she  was,"  holding  the  door  open  for 
the  cold  wind  to  blow  upon  the  invalid,  while  he 
received  the  faint  "  Easy,  thank  you,"  from  lips  that 


34  FRESH    LEAVES. 

contracted  with  pain,  as  the  door  closed  after  him 
in  no  gentle  manner. 

No  thought  of  his  children  disturbed  Mr.  Wade's 
equanimity.  He  did  not  see,  day  by  day,  the  sor 
rowful  face  of  his  daughter  lifted  to  his,  as  if  in 
search  of  sympathy ;  nor  notice  the  tip-toe  steps  of 
the  playful  little  Neddy,  as  he  passed  to  and  fro? 
with  messages  from  Mrs.  Hereford  to  Betty. 

"  It's  infamous  !"  said  the  latter,  slamming  herself 
down  in  one  of  the  kitchen  chairs.  "  Is  that  man 
made  of  flesh  and  blood,  or  is  he  not?  All  last 
night,  Mrs.  Wade  sat  up  in  bed,  with  that  dreadful 
distress  for  breath,  tossing  her  arms  up  over  her 
head,  and  that  man  snoring  away  like,  the  seven 
sleepers.  It's  infamous!  Now,  I'm  no  eaves 
dropper  :  I  scorn  it ;  but  I  was  in  the  kitchen  this 
morning,  and  the  slide  was  open  through  the  closet 
into  the  basement,  and  I  heard  Mrs.  Hereford  say 
to  her  husband,  who  had  called  to  inquire  after  Mrs. 
Wade  :  (  Oh,  James,  James,  how  can  I  love  or  re 
spect  my  father  ?'  and  she  sobbed  as  if  her  heart 
would  break ;  and  then  she  told  him  that  the  doctor 
had  ordered  some  kind  of  drugs  to  be  burned  in 
Mrs.  Wade's  room  to  help  her  breathing — some 
thing  expensive — I  don't  remember  the  name,  and 
Mr.  Wade  said  the  doctor  was  an  old  granny,  and 
it  was  a  useless  expense,  and  wouldn't  give  his 
daughter  the  money  for  it.  When  Mrs.  Hereford 
had  finished  telling,  I  heard  her  husband  say  a  word 
I  never  expected  to  hear  out  of  his  mouth,  and  he 


A    BUSINESS    MAN'S    HOME.  35 

kissed  his  wife,  and  handing  her  his  pocket-book, 
told  her  to  get  whatever  was  necessary.  Oh,  dear ; 
the  Bible  says,  'Honor  your  parents;'  but  whether 
such  a  man  as  that  is  a  parent  ?  that's  the  question. 
Some  of  the  ministers  must  settle  it ;  I  can't.  But 
it  never  will  be  clear  to  me  that  bringing  a  child 
into  the  world  makes  a  parent,  I  don't  care  what 
they  say ;  it's  clear  as  day-light  that  the  Lord  meant 
that  after  that  they  should  see  'em  safe  through  it, 
no  matter  how  much  trouble  turns  up  for  'em. 
When  I'm  married,  if  I  ever  am,  I'll  say  this  to  my 
young  ones  :  '  Now  look  here ;  tell  me  every  tiling. 
If  you  are  sorry,  tell  me ;  if  you  are  glad,  tell  me ;  if 
you  are  wicked,  tell  me ;  and  I  never,  never,  will 
turn  away  from  you,  no  more  than  I  want  G-od  to 
turn  away  from  me.  And  if  you  break  G-od's  laws 
and  man's  laws,  as  I  hope  you  won't — if  you  love 
Him  and  me — still,  I  never  will  shut  my  door  in  your 
face,  no  matter  ivhat  you  do,  no  more  than  I  want 
my  Maker  to  shut  heaven's  door  in  mine.'  Naw, 
that's  my  notion  of  a  parent.  Whether  I  shall  ever 
have  a  chance  to  carry  it  out  or  not — that's  another 
tiling ;  but  as  sure  as  I  do,  there's  where  you'll  find 
me ;  and  it's  my  belief  that  many  a  man  has  swung 
on  a  gibbet,  and  many  a  woman  has  cursed  Q-od  and 
man  with  her  last  breath,  for  want  of  just  that.  As 
if  food,  and  drink,  and  clothes  was  all  a  child 
wanted,  or  a  wife  either,  for  that  matter ;  as  if  that 
was  all  a  husband  or  a  father  was  bound  to  furnish  • 
as  if  that  was  all  the  Lord  would  hold  him  account- 


36  FRESH    LEAVES. 

able  for;  as  if  that  was — gracious  Grad  grind,  there's 
my  toast  burnt  all  to  a  crisp. 

Thanks  to  Mrs.  Hereford,  who  procured  the  herbs 
ordered  by  the  doctor,  the  poor  sufferer  was  tem 
porarily  relieved. 

"  Who  is  that,  Mary  ?"  she  asked,  as  she  distin 
guished  a  strange  footstep  in  the  hall. 

':  It  is  Miss  Alsop,"  replied  Mary. 

No  reply  from  the  invalid,  but  a  weary  turning 
of  the  pale  face  toward  the  pillow,  and  a  gathering 
moisture  in  the  eyes. 

"  Come  here,  Mary — nearer — nearer" — Mrs.  Here 
ford  bent  her  head  so  low  that  her  brown  curls 
swept  her  mother's  pillow. 

* '  That — woman — will — be — y  our — father's — wife 
when — I — am — scarcely — cold.'' 

"  God  forbid — don't,  mother — don't ;"  and  poor 
Mary's  tears  and  kisses  covered  the  emaciated  face 
before  her. 

*"  You  have  a  home — and  a  husband — and  a  kind 
one,  Mary,  but  Susan  and  Neddy — it  is  hard  to 
leave  my  children  to  her  keeping.  If  I  could  but 
take  them  with  me." 

As  she  said  this,  Betty  beckoned  Mrs.  Hereford 
out  of  the  room,  saying  "  that  Miss  Alsop  wished 
to  see  her,  to  inquire  how  dear  Mrs.  Wade  had 
passed  the  night." 

"  Tell  her,"  said  Mary,  "  that  she  is  very  ill,  and 
that  I  can  not  leave  her  to  receive  visitors." 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  37 

"  If  you  please,"  said  Betty,  returning,  "  Miss  Al- 
sop  says  she  is  so  weary  that  she  will  sit  and  rest 
for  half  an  hour." 

"Just  half  an  hour  before  father  comes  home; 
then,  of  course,  he  will  invite  her  to  partake  his  soli 
tary  dinner  •  that's  just  what  she  came  for  ;  mother 
is  right;  how  strange  that  I  never  should  have 
thought  of  all  this  before  1"  and  a  thousand  little 
things  now  flashed  upon  her  mind  in  confirmation 
of  what  her  mother  had  just  said. 

Miss  Alsop  was  an  unmarried  woman  of  forty, 
and  presented  that  strange  anomaly,  a  fat  old  maid. 
Her  teeth  were  good,  her  hair  thick  and  glossy,  and 
her  voice  softer  than  the  cooing  of  a  dove  ;  one  of 
those  voices  which  are  the  never-failing  herald  of 
deceit  and  hypocrisy  to  the  keen  observer  of  human 
nature.  For  years  she  had  had  her  eye  upon  Mr. 
Alsop,  and  actually  claimed  a  sort  of  cousinly  rela 
tionship,  which  she  never  had  been  able  very  clearly 
to  establish,  but  upon  the  strength  of  which  she  had 
come,  self-invited,  twice  a  month,  to  spend  the  day. 
The  first  moment  Mrs.  Wade  saw  her,  she  was  con 
scious  of  an  instinctive  aversion  to  her ;  but  as  she 
was  never  in  the  habit  of  consulting  her  own  tastes 
or  inclinations,  she  endured  the  infliction  with  her 
own  gentle  sweetness.  No  one  who  witnessed  her 
offering  Miss  Alsop  the  easiest  chair,  or  helping  her 
to  the  daintiest  bit  on  the  table,  would  have  supposed 
that  she  read  the  wily  Woman's  secret  heart.  Not 
a  look,  not  a  word,  not  a  tone  betrayed  it;  but 


38  FRESH    LEAVES. 

when  the  weary  day  was  over,  and  Miss  Alsop  had 
exhausted  all  her  vapid  nothings,  and,  tying  on  her 
bonnet,  regretted  that  she  must  trouble  Mr.  Wade 
to  wait  upon  her  home,  Mrs.  Wade,  as  they  passed 
through  the  door,  and  out  into  the  darkness,  would 
lean  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  while  tears,  which  no 
human  eye  had  ever  seen,  fell  thick  and  fast. 

Not  that  Mr.  Wade  had  any  affection  for  Miss  Al 
sop — not  at  all — he  was  incapable  of  affection  for 
any  thing  but  himself  and  his  money ;  but  Miss  Al 
sop  had  a  way  of  saying  little  complimentary  things 
to  which  the  most  sensible  man  alive  never  yet 
was  insensible,  from  the  stupidest  and  silliest  of 
women.  What  wonder  that  the  profound  Mr. 
Wade  walked  into  the  trap  with  his  betters  ?  and 
though  he  would  not,  for  one  of  his  money-bags, 
have  owned  it,  he  always  left  her  doubly  impressed 
with  the  value  of  his  own  consequence.  Then — 
Miss  Alsop  knew  how  to  be  an  excellent  listener 
when  occasion  required,  and  Mr.  Wade  was,  like  all 
egregious  stupidities,  fond  of  hearing  himself  talk; 
and  occasionally  Miss  Alsop  would  ask  him  to  re 
peat  some  remark  he  had  made,  as  if  peculiarly 
struck  with  its  acuteness,  or  its  adaptation  to  her 
single-blessed- needs,  upon  which  Mr.  Wade  would 
afterward  pleasantly  reflect,  with  the  mental  ex 
clamation,  "  Sensible  woman,  that  Miss  Alsop !" 
Let  it  not  be  supposed  that  this  depth  of  cunning 
was  at  all  incompatible  with'  obtuseness  of  intellect 
• — not  at  all — there  is  no  cunning  like  the  cunning  of 


A    BUSINESS    MAN  S    HOME.  39 

a  fool.  Yes — Miss  Alsop  knew  her  man.  She 
knew  she  could  afford  to  bide  her  time ;  besides, 
were  personal  charms  insufficient,  had  she  not  a 
most  potent  auxiliary  in  her  bank-book,  which 
placed  to  her  spinster  credit  twenty  thousand  dol 
lars  in  the  "  People's  Bank  ?" 

CHAPT  E  R     VI. 

MRS.  WADE  sat  propped  up  in  bed  by  pillows,  for 
the  nature  of  her  disease  rendered  repose  impossi 
ble  ;  dreadful  spasms — the  forerunners  of  dissolution 
— at  intervals  convulsed  her  frame.  Pale,  but  firm, 
the  gentle  Mary  Hereford  glided  about  her,  now  sup 
porting  the  worn-out  frame — now  holding  to  her 
lips  the  cup  meant  for  healing — now  opening  a  door, 
or  slightly  raising  a  window,  to  facilitate  the  invalid's 
labored  breathing. 

The  fire  had  burned  low  in  the  grate,  and  when 
the  gray  light  of  morning  stole  in  through  the  half 
open  shutter,  and  the  invalid  would  have  replenished 
it,  Mrs.  Wade's  low  whispered,  "  I  shall  not  need  it, 
Mary,"  gave  expression  to  the  fearful  certainty 
which  her  own  heart  had  silently  throbbed  out 
through  the  long  watches  of  that  agonized  night. 
Not  a  murmur  escaped  the  sufferer's  lips — there  was 
no  request  for  the  presence  of  the  absent  sleeper, 
who  had  promised  "  to  cherish  through  sickness  and 
health;"  no  mention  was  made  of  the  children,  who 
had  been  trustingly  placed  in  the  hands  of  Him  who 


40  FRESH    LEAVES. 

doeth  all  thimgs  well,  and  who  wearily  slumbered 
on,  unconscious  that  the  brightness  of  their  child 
hood's  sky  was  fading  out  forever.  The  thin  arms 
were  wound  around  the  neck  of  the  first-born,  about 
whom  such  happy  hopes  had  once  so  thickly  clus 
tered,  and  peacefully  as  an  infant  drops  asleep, 
Susan  Wade  closed  her  eyes  forever ;  so  peacefully 
that  the  daughter  knew  not  the  moment  in  which 
the  desolate  word — "  motherless" — was  written  over 
against  her  name. 

Motherless! — that  in  that  little  word  should  be 
compressed  such  weary  weight  of  woe !  It  were 
sad  to  be  written  fatherless — but  G-od  and  his  min 
istering  angels  only  know  how  dark  this  earth  may 
be,  when  she  who  was  never  weary  of  us  with  all 
our  frailties — she,  to  whom  our  very  weaknesses 
clamored  more  loudly  for  love;  lies  careless  of  our 
tears. 

" Henry!"  said  Mr.  Wade  to  Mr.  Hereford,  "I 
had  no  idea,  in  fact — I  didn't  think" — and  the  em 
barrassed  .man  tried  to  rub  open  his  still  sleepy  eyes 
— "I  didn't  suppose,  really,  that  Mrs.  Wade  would 
die  yet;  women  are  so  notional,  and  that  doctor 
seemed  to  be  encouraging  Mrs.  Wade  to  be  sick,  as 
doctors  always  do — really  I  am  quite  taken  by  sur 
prise,  as  one  may  say  ;  I  don't  know  any  thing  about 
these  things — I  should  like  to  have  you  do  what  is 
necessary.  I  suppose  it  will  not  be  considered  the 
thing  for  me  to  go  to  the  store  to-day,"  and  he 


A  BUSINESS  MAN'S  HOME.  41 

looked  for  encouragement  to  do  so  in  the  face  of  his 
disgusted  son-in-law. 

"  I  should  think  not,  decidedly,"  said  Mr.  Here 
ford,  dryly. 

"  Of  course  it  would  not  be  my  wish,"  said  Mr. 
Wade,  "  when  poor  Susan  lies  dead ;  but  one's  duty, 
you  know,  sometimes  runs  a  different  way  from 
one's  inclination." 

And  vice  versa,  thought  Henry,  but  he  merely  re 
marked  that  he  would  take  any  message  for  him  to 
his  place  of  business. 

Mr.  Wade  could  do  no  less  than  accept  his  offer, 
so,  after  eating  his  usual  breakfast  with  his  usual 
appetite,  he  paced  up  and  down  the  parlor ;  got  up 
and  sat  down  ;  and  looked  out  at  the  window,  and 
tried  in  various  ways  to  stifle  certain  uncomfortable 
feelings  which  began  to  disturb  his  digestion.  It 
was  uncomfortable — very.  The  awe-struck  face  of 
Betty  as  she  stole  in  and  out,  the  swollen  eyes  of 
the  children,  the  pallid  face  of  Mrs.  Hereford,  who 
was  trying  to  give  them  the  consolation  she  so  much 
needed  herself,  and  the  heavy  step  of  the  under 
taker  over-head  performing  his  repulsive  office. 
And  so  the  day  wore  away ;  and  the  form,  that  a 
child  might  have  lifted,  was  kid  in  the  coffin,  and 
no  trace  of  pain  or  sorrow  lay  upon  the  face  upon 
which  the  death-angel  had  written  Peace ! 

Why  did  he  fear  to  look  upon  its  placid  sweet 
ness  ?  JSTo  reproach  ever  came  from  the  living  lips 
— did  he  fear  it  from  the  dead  ? 


42  FRESH    LEAVES. 

How  still  lay  the  once  busy  fingers !  What  a 
mockery  seemed  the  usual  signs  and  sounds  of  do 
mestic  life  1  How  empty,  purposeless,  aimless, 
seemed  life's  petty  cares  and  needs.  How  chilling 
this  total  eclipse  of  light,  and  love,  and  warmth ! 
Blessed  they,  who  can  ease  their  pained  hearts  by 
sobbing  all  this  out  to  the  listening  ear  of  sympathy. 
But  what  if  the  great  agony  be  pent  up  within  the 
swelling  heart  till  it  is  nigh  bursting  ?  What  if  it 
be  pent  up  thus  in  the  gushing  heart  of  childhood  ? 
What  if  no  father's  arms  be  outstretched  to  enfold 
the  motherless  ?  What  if  the  paternal  hand  never 
rests  lovingly  on  the  bowed  young  head  ?  What  if 
the  moistening  eye  must  send  back  to  its  source 
the  welling  tear?  What  if  the  choking  sob  be  an 
offense  ?  What  if  childhood's  ark  of  refuge — moth 
er's  room — echo  back  only  its  own  restless  foot 
steps  ?  0,  how  many  houses  that  present  only  to 
the  careless  eye,  a  blank  surface  of  brick  and  mor 
tar,  are  inscribed  all  over  with  the  handwriting,  leg 
ible  only  to  those  whose  baptism  has  been — tears ! 

But  why  count  over  the  tears  of  the  orphans, 
why  tell  of  their  weary  days  and  sleepless  nights — of 
honest  Betty's  home-spun  attempts  at  consolation — 
of  Mr.  Wade's  repeated  refusals  of  Mrs.  Hereford's 
invitation  for  them  to  spend  that  part  of  the  day 
with  her  in  which  he  was  absent  at  his  business  ? 
Why  tell  of  the  invisible  web  the  cunning  Miss  Al- 
sop  was  weaving  ?  Why  tell  of  her  speedy  success  ? 
Why  tell  of  the  soft-eyed  dove  transformed  by  Hy- 


VISITING    AND    VISITORS.  43 

men  to  the  vulture  ?  Why  tell  of  his  astonishment, 
who  prided  himself  upon  his  lynx-eyed  and  infalli 
ble  penetration  of  the  sex,  at  being  forced  to  drain 
to  the  dregs  that  bitter  cup  he  had  held  so  un 
sparingly  to  the  meek  lips  upon  which  death  had  set 
his  seal  of  silence  ?  Why  tell  of  that  pitiful  old  age, 
which,  having  garnered  the  chaff,  and  thrown  away 
the  wheat  of  a  life-time,  finds  itself  on  the  grave's 
brink  with  no  desire  for  repentance,  clutching  with 
palsied  hands  the  treasure  of  which  Death  stands 
ready  to  rob  it ! 


VISITING    AND    VISITORS. 

"  WHEN  are  you  coming  to  spend  the  day  with 
us  ?"  asked  a  lady  of  my  acquaintance  of  another. 
"Spend  the  day  with  you,  my  dear!"  replied  the 
latter ;  "  I  should  be  tired  to  death  spending  the  day 
with  you  ;  maybe  I  '11  take  tea  with  you  sometime." 

I  have  often  pleased  myself  imagining  how  the 
wheels  of  society  would  creak  greased  with  such 
honesty  as  that !  and  yet  how  many,  if  they  but 
dared  to  speak  their  real  sentiments,  would  make  a 
similar  response.  Now,  I  respect  that  old  lady ; 
she  had  made  good  use  of  her  years ;  she  probably 
knew  what  it  was  to  talk  at  a  mark  for  hours  on 
the  stretch,  to  some  one-idea-d  statue,  who,  with 
crossed  hands  and  starched  attitude,  seemed  re- 


44  FRESH    LEAVES. 

raorsclessly  exacting  of  her  weary  tongue — Give — 
Give !  She  knew  what  it  was  to  long  for  dinner  to 
reprieve  her  aching  jaws,  or,  at  least,  afford  them  a 
diversion  of  labor.  She  knew  what  it  was  to  be 
gladder  to  see  one's  husband  home  on  such  a  day, 
than  on  any  other  clay  in  the  year ;  and  she  knew 
what  it  was  to  have  those  hopes  dashed  to  earth  by 
that  inglorious  sneak  selfishly  retreating  behind  his 
newspaper,  instead  of  shouldering  the  conversation 
as  he  ought.  She  knew  what  it  was  to  have  the 
hour  arrive  for  her  afternoon  nap  (I  won't  call  it 
;<  siesta,")  instead  of  which,  with  leaden  lids,  and  a 
great  goneness  of  brain  and  diaphragm,  she  must 
still  keep  on  ringing  changes  on  the  alphabet,  for  the 
edification  of  the  monosyllabic  statue,  who — horror 
of  horrors  ! — had  "  concluded  to  stay  to  tea."  She 
knew  what  it  was  in  a  fit  of  despair  to  present  a 
book  of  engravings  to  the  statue,  and  to  hear  that 
interesting  functionary  remark  as  she  returned  it, 
that  "her  eyes  were  weak."  She  knew  what  it  was 
to  send  in  for  a  merry  little  chatterbox  of  a  neigh 
bor  to  relieve  guard,  and  receive  for  answer,  "  that 
she  had  gone  out  of  town !"  She  knew  what  it 
was  to  wish  that  she  had  forty  babies  up  stairs,  with 
forty  pains  under  their  aprons,  if  need  be,  that  she 
might  have  an  excuse  for  leaving  the  statue  for  at 
least  one  blessed  half-hour.  She  knew  what  it  was  to 
have  the  inglorious  sneak  later  to  tea  on  that  weari 
some  day  than  ever  before ;  and  on  his  entrance, 
blandly  and  coolly  to  unfurl  a  business  letter,  which, 


VISITING    AND    VISITORS.  45 

with  a  Chesterfieldian  bow,  he  hoped  the  statue 
would  excuse  him  for  retiring  to  answer  j  and  she 
knew  what  it  was,  five  minutes  later,  to  spy  the 
wretch  on  the  back  piazza  reveling  in  solitude  and 
a  cigar.  She  knew  what  it  was,  when  the  statue 
finally — (for  every  thing  comes  to  an  end  some  time, 
thank  heaven) — took  protracted  leave — to  cry  hys- 
terrically  from  sheer  weariness,  and  a  recollection  of 
pressing  family  duties  indefinitely  postponed,  and  to 
think  for  the  forty-eleventh  time,  what  propriety 
there  was  in  calling  her  the  weaker  sex,  who  had  daily 
to  shoulder  burdens  which  the  strongest  man  either 
couldn't  or — wouldn't  bear.  And  so  again,  I  say — 
sensible  old  lady — would  there  were  more  like  her ! 
And  yet  we  would  fain  hope  that,  like  ours,  this 
is  but  one  side  of  her  experience.  We  would  hope 
that  she  knew  what  it  was  to  throw  her  arms  about 
the  neck  of  a  friend  from  whom  she  had  no  dis 
guises  ;  whose  loving  eyes  scanned — not  the  wall 
for  possible  cobwebs,  nor  yet  the  carpet  for  darns, 
nor  yet  the  mirror  for  fly-specks ;  but  her  face,  to 
See  what  sorrow  Time,  in  his  flight,  had  registered 
there,  which  by  sympathy  she  could  lighten;  what 
joy,  which,  by  sharing,  she  could  increase.  We 
hope  she  knew  what  it  was  to  sit  side  by  side  with 
such  a  one  at  the  frugal  meal — sweeter  far  than  the 
stalled  ox,  for  the  love  that  seasoned  it.  We  hope  she 
knew  what  it  was  to  lounge,  or  sit,  or  stand,  or  walk, 
or  read,  or  sew,  or  doze  even,  in  that  friend's  pres 
ence,  with  that  perfect  love  which  casteth  out  fear. 


46  FRESH    LEAVES. 

We  hope  she  knew  what  it  was  to  count  the  hours 
as  they  passed,  not  for  their  irksomeness,  but  as  a 
miser  tells  his  hoarded  gold ;  jealous,  lest  even  the 
smallest  fraction  should  escape.  We  hope  she 
knew  what  it  was  when  she  unwillingly  closed  the 
door  upon  her  retreating  form,  that  shutting  it 
never  so  securely,  kind  words,  good  deeds,  loving 
looks  and  tones,  came  flocking  in  to  people  the 
voiceless  solitude  as  with  shining  troops  of  white- 
robed  angels. 

And  we  hope  she  knew  what  it  was  to  give  the 
cup  of  cold  water  to  the  humble  disciple  for  the 
Master's  sake.  We  hope  that  the  door  of  her  house 
and  heart  were  opened  as  widely  for  the  destitute 
orphan,  in  whose  veins  her  own  blood  flowed — who 
oould  repay  it  only  with  tearful  thanks — as  for  those 
who  could  return  feast  for  feast,  and  whose  tongues 
were  as  smooth  as  their  wine.  And  finally  and 
lastly,  lest  we  ourselves  should  be  making  too  long  a 
visit — we  hope  the  old  lady  had  no  "  best  chamber," 
with  closed  blinds ;  pillows  ns  ruffled  as  the  cham 
bermaid's  temper ;  forbiddingly  polished  sheets ; 
smothering  canopy ;  counterpane  all  too  dainty  for 
tumbling ;  and  pincushion,  whose  lettered  words  one 
must  not  invade,  even  at  the  most  buttonless  ex 
tremity  !  Blessings  on  the  old  lady :  we  trust  her 
carpets  were  made  to  be  trod  on — her  chairs  to 
sit  down  upon — and  her  windows  to  open.  We 
hope  her  house  was  too  small  to  hold  half  of  her 
friends,  and  too  hot  to  hold  one  of  her  enemies. 


OUR    FIRST    NURSE.  47 

OUR   FIRST   NURSE. 

Now  sit  down,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 
Charley  and  I  were  engaged.  Youth  comes  but 
once,  you  know,  and  if  we  waited  to  be  married 
until  we  could  furnish  a  house  in  fashionable 
style — well,  you  see,  we  knew  too  much  for 
that;  we  got  married,  and  left  other  couples  to 
grow  gray,  if  they  liked,  on  the  distant  prospect  of 
damask  curtains,  gold  salt-cellars,  and  trains  of  in 
numerable  servants. 

Charley  did  not  know  the  meaning  of  a  "  club 
house,"  and  tho  shopkeepers  flashed  their  diamonds 
and  satins  in  vain  in  my  face  •  I  never  gave  them 
a  thought.  We  had  some  nice  books,  and  some 
choice  engravings,  presented  to  Charley  by  an  old 
antiquary  who  had  taken  a  fancy  to  him.  You 
might  have  gone  into  many  a  parlor  on  which 
thousands  had.  been  lavished,  and  liked  ours  all  the 
better  when  you  came  back.  Still,  it  wanted 
something — that  we  both  agreed  ;  for  no  house 
can  be  said  to  be  properly  furnished  without  a 
baby.  Santa  Claus,  good  soul,  understood  that, 
and  Christmas  day  he  brought  us  one,  weighing 
the  usual  eight  pounds,  and  as  lively  as  a  cricket. 
Such  lungs  as  it  had !  Charley  said  it  was  in 
tent]  ed  for  a  minister. 

Well,  now  it  was  all  right,  or  would  have  been, 
if  the  baby  had  not  involved  a  nurse.  We  had,  to 
be  sure,  a  vague  idea  that  we  must  have  one,  and 


48  FRESH    LEAVES. 


as  vague  an  idea  of  what  a  nurse  was.  We 
thought  her  a  good  kind  of  creature  who  under 
stood  baby-dom,  and  never  interfered  with  any  little 
family  arrangements. 

Not  a  bit  of  it  I 

The  very  first  thing  she  did  was  to  make  prepar 
ation  to  sleep  in  my  room,  and  send  Charley  off 
into  a  desolate  spare  chamber.  Charley  1  my  Char 
ley  !  whose  shaving  operations  I  had  watched  with 
the  intensest  interest ;  mixing  up  little  foam  seas  of 
"  lather"  for  him,  handing  him  little  square  bits  of 
paper  to  wipe  his  razor  upon,  and  applying  nice  bits 
of  courtplaster,  when  he  accidentally  cut  his  chin 
while  we  were  laughing.  Charley  !  whose  cravats 
I  had  tied  to  suit  my  fancy  every  blessed  morning, 
whose  hair  I  had  brushed  up  in  elegant  confusion, 
whose  whiskers  I  had  coaxed  and  trimmed,  and — 
well,  any  one,  unless  a  bachelor  or  old  maid,  who 
reads  this,  can  see  that  it  was  perfectly  ridiculous. 

Charley  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  him,  and 
then  we  both  looked  at  the  bran  new  baby — and 
there 's  where  she  had  us.  You  might  have  seen  it 
with  half  an  eye,  as  she  folded  her  hands  compla 
cently  over  her  apron-strings,  and  sat  down  in  my 
little  rocking-chair,  opposite  the  bed.  I  felt  as 
though  I  was  sold  to  the  Evil  One,  as  she  fixed  har 
basilisk  eyes  on  me  when  Charley  left  the  room. 
Poor  Charley  1  He  did  not  want  to  go.  He  neither 
smoked,  nor  drank,  nor  played  billiards ;  he  loved 
home  and — me  ;  so  he  wandered  up  stairs  and 


* 

OUR    FIRST    NURSE.  49 

down,  sat  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets  staring  at 
the  parlor  fire  till  he  could  bear  it  no  longer,  and 
then  came  up  stairs  to  get  comforted.  If  you'll 
believe  it,  that  woman  came  fussing  round  the  bed 
after  him,  just  as  if  he  were  infringing  some  of  her 
rights  and  immunities. 

What  if  he  did  bring  me  a  sly  piece  of  cake  in  his 
pocket  ?  Who  likes  to  live  on  gruel  forever  ? 
What  if  he  did  open  the  blinds  and  let  a  little 
blessed  sunlight  in,  when  she  tried  to  humbug  us 
into  the  belief  that  "  it  would  hurt  the  baby's  eyss,>T 
because  she  was  too  lazy  to  wipe  the  dust  from  the 
furniture  ?  What  if  he  did  steal  one  of  her  knitting 
needles,  when  she  sat  there,  evening  after  evening, 
knitting  round,  and  round,  and  round  that  inter 
minable  old  gray  stocking,  my  eyes  following  her 
with  a  horrid  sort  of  fascination,  till  my  nerves 
were  wound  up  to  the  screaming  point  ?  What  if 
I  did  tell  him  that  she  always  set  her  rocking-chair? 
on  that  loo^e  board  on  the  floor,  which  sent  forth 
that  little  crucifying  squeak,  and  that  she  always 
said  "  Bless  me  1"  and  was  always  sure  to  get  OB  to 
it  again  the  very  next  time  she  sat  dowB>?"  What: 
if  I  did  tell  him  that  when  she  had  eaten  too  much 
dinner,  and  wanted  to  take  a  sly  nap,  she  would 
muffle  the  baby  up  in  so  many  blankets  that  it  could 
not  cry  if  it  wanted  to,  and  then  would  draw  the 
curtains  closely  round  my  bed,  and  tell  me  that  "  it 
was  high  time  I  took  a  nap  ?"  I,  who  neither  by 
stratagem  or  persuasion,  could  ever  be  induced  to 
5 


50  FRESH    LEAVES. 

sleep  in  the  daytime  ?  I,  who  felt  as  if  my  eye 
lashes  were  fastened  up  to  the  roots  of  my  hair,  and 
as  if  legions  of  little  ants  were  crawling  all  over  me  ? 

What  if  I  did  tell  him  that  she  got  up  a  skirmish 
with  me  every  night,  because  I  would  not  wear  a 
nuisance  called  a  night-cap  ?  What  if  I  did  tell  him 
that  she  insisted  upon  putting  a  sticky  pitch-plaster 
upon  my  neck,  for  a  little  ghost  of  a  cough  (occa 
sioned  by  her  stirring  the  ashes  in  the  grate  too 
furiously),  and  that  when  I  outgeneraled  her,  and 
clapped  it  round  the  bed-post  instead,  she  muttered, 
spitefully,  that  "  a  handsome  neck  would  not  keep 
me  out  of  my  coffin  ?"  What  if  I  did  tell  him  that 
she  tried  on  my  nice  little  lace  collars,  when  she 
thought  I  was  asleep  at  night,  and  insisted  on  my 
drinking  detestable  porter,  that  its  second-hand  in 
fluence  might  "  make  the  baby  sleep  ?"  What  if  I 
did,  was  he  not  my  husband  ?  Did  I  not  tell  him 
every  thing?  laugh  with  him?  cry  with  him?  eat 
out  of  his  plate  ?  drink  out  of  his  cup  of  tea,  because 
being  his,  I  fancied  they  tasted  better  than  mine  ? 
and  did  n't  he  like  it,  too  ?  Of  course  he  did  ! 

What  if  I  did  tell  him  all  this  ?  Poor  Charley ! 
he  was  forlorn,  too;  his  cravats  were  tied  like  a 
fright  all  the  time  I  was  sick,  his  hair  looked  like 
any  other  man's,,  the  buttons  were  off  his  pretty 
velvet  vest,  and  he  had  not  even  the  heart  to  get 
his  boots  blacked.  Poor  Charley ! 

Well;  that  nurse  had  the  impudence  to  tell  us 
one  evening  "that  we  acted  like  two  children." 


OUR    FIRST    NURSE.  51 

"Children!"  We!  Us!  the  parents  of  that  eight- 
pound  baby !  That  was  the  last  drop  in  our  cup. 
Charley  paid  her,  and  I  was  so  glad  when  she  went, 
that  I  laughed  till  I  cried. 

Then  we  both  drew  a  long  breath  and  sat  down 
and  looked  at  the  new  baby — our  baby ;  and  Char 
ley  asked  me  about  its  little  sleeping  habits,  and 
I  told  him,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  that  I 
could  not  speak  definitely  on  that  point;  and  then 
we  discussed,  in  a  whisper,  the  respective  merits  of 
cribs  and  cradles,  and  the  propriety  of  teaching  it,  at 
an  early  period,  that  impressive  line  of  Mrs.  Hemans : 

44 Night  is  the  time  for  sleep;" 

and  then  Charley  got  up,  and  exchanged  his  musical 
boots  for  a  noiseless  pair  of  slippers,  and  changed 
the  position  of  the  shovel,  tongs,  and  poker,  and 
oiled  the  creaking  hinge  of  the  closet  door,  and  laid 
a  chair  over  the  squeaking  board  in  the  floor,  that 
he  might  not  tread  on  it,  and  with  one  eye  on  the 
baby,  gently  shaded  the  lamp ;  and  then  he  looked 
at  me,  and  gave  a  little  sort  of  congratulatory  nod, 
and  then  he  drew  off  his  vest  and  hung  it  over  a 
chair,  and  then — out  rattled  a  perfect  tempest  of 
half  dollars,  quarters,  shillings,  and  sixpences,  on  the 
hearth  !  Of  course,  the  baby  woke  (frightened  out 
of  a  year's  growth),  and  screamed  until  it  was 
black  in  the  face.  In  vain  its  poor,  inexperienced 
papa  kissed  it,  scratching  its  little  velvet  face  with 
his  rough  whiskers  the  while !  In  vain  we  both 


52  FRESH    LEAVES. 

walked  the  floor  with  it.  The  fire  went  out,  the 
lamp  went ;  and  just  at  daybreak  it  came  to  us  like 
a  revelation,  the  sarcastic  tone  of  that  hateful  old 
nurse,  as  she  said,  "  G-ood-by ;  I  hope  you  '11  get 
along  comfortably  with  the  dear  baby!" 

And  so  we  did.  Do  you  suppose  one  night's 
watching  was  going  to  quench  our  love,  either  for 
the  baby,  or  for  each  other  ?  No — nor  a  thousand 
like  it !  for,  as  Dr.  Watts,  or  Saxe,  hath  it,  "  it  was 
one  of  the  kind  that  was  not  born  to  die." 


THE  SHADOW  OF  A  GREAT  ROCK  IN  A 
WEARY  LAND. 

MAN  may  turn  his  back  upon  Revelation,  and  feed 
upon  the  dry  husks  of  infidelity,  if  he  will  j  but  sure 
I  am,  that  woman  can  not  do  without  her  Saviour. 
In  her  happiest  estate,  she  has  sorrows  that  can 
only  be  intrusted  to  an  Almighty  ear ;  responsibili 
ties  that  no  human  aid  can  give  her  strength  to 
meet.  But  what  if  earthly  love  be  poisoned  at  the 
fountain  ? — what  if  her  feeble  shoulders  bend  unsup 
ported  under  the  weight  of  her  daily,  cross  ? — what 
if  her  life-sky  be  black  with  gathering  gloom? — 
what  if  her  foes  be  they  of  her  own  household  ? — 
what  if  treachery  sit  down  at  her  hearth-stone,  and 
calumny  await  her  without,  with  extended  finger  ? 
What  then — if  no  Saviour's  arms  be  outstretched  to 


TO    LITERARY    ASPIRANTS.  53 

enfold  her  ?  What  if  it  be  "  absurd"  (as  some  tell 
her)  that  the,  God  who  governs  the  universe  should 
stoop  to  interest  himself  in  her  petty  concerns? 
What  if  the  Bible  to  which  she  flies  be  "  a  dead 
letter  ?"  and  "  Come  unto  me  all  ye  who  are  weary 
and  heavy  laden" — only  "  a  metaphor  ?"  What 
earthly  accents  can  fall  upon  her  ear  as  sweet  as 
these — "  A  bruised  reed  will  I  not  break  ?"  Woman 
may  be  "  weak  ;"  but  blessed  be  the  weakness 
which  leads  her  to  lean  on  that  Almighty  arm, 
which  man  in  his  pride  rejects ;  listening  rather  in 
his  extremity,  to  the  demon  whisper — "  Curse  Grod 
and  die." 

Woman  may  be  "weak;"  you  may  confuse  her 
with  your  sophistries,  deafen  her  with  your  argu 
ments,  and  standing  before  her  in  your  false 
strength,  exclaim  like  the  unbelievers  of  old — 
"  Away  with  him !"  and  still  her  yearning  soul 
cries  out,  with  a  voice  no  subtlety  of  yours  can  sat 
isfy  or  stifle — "My  Lord  and  my  Godl" 


TO   LITERARY  ASPIRANTS. 

MY  heart  aches  at  the  letters  I  am  daily  receiving 
from  persons  who  wish  to  support  themselves  by  their 
pens ;  many  of  these  letters,  mis-spelt  and  ungram- 
matical,  show  their  writers  to  be  totally  unfit  for  the 
vocation  they  have  chosen ;  and  yet,  alas !  their  ne- 


54  FRESH  LEAVES. 

cessities  are  for  that  reason  none  the  less  pressing. 
Others,  unexceptionable  in  these  respects,  see  no 
preliminary  steps  to  be  taken  between  avowing  this 
their  determination,  and  at  once  securing  the  re 
muneration  accorded  to  long-practiced  writers,  who, 
by  patient  toil  and  waiting,  have  secured  a  remun 
erative  name.  They  see  a  short  article  in  print,  by 
some  writer ;  it  reads  easy — they  doubt  not  it  was 
written  easily ;  this  may  or  may  not  be  the  case ; 
if  so — what  enabled  the  writer  to  produce  it  in  so 
short  a  space  of  time?  Long  habit  of  patient, 
trained  thinking,  which  the  beginner  has  yet  to  ac 
quire. 

You  are  taken  sick;  you  send  for  a  physician; 
he  comes  in,  stays  ten  minutes,  prescribes  for  you  a 
healing  medicine,  and  charges  you  three  or  four  dol 
lars.  You  call  this  "extortionate" — forgetting  the 
medical  books  he  must  have  waded  through,  the  re 
volting  dissections  he  must  have  witnessed  and  par 
ticipated  in,  and  the  medical  lectures  he  must  have 
digested,  to  have  enabled  him  to  pronounce  on  your 
case  so  summarily  and  satisfactorily.  To  return  to 
our  subject.  These  practiced  writers  have  gone 
through  (as  you  must  do),  the  purgatorial  furnace 
which  separates  the  literary  dross  from  the  pure  ore. 
That  all  who  do  this  should  come  out  fine  gold,  is 
impossible ;  but  I  maintain,  that  if  there  is  any  thing 
in  a  literary  aspirant,  this  process  will  develop  it, 
spite  of  discouragement — spite  of  depression — nay, 
on  that  very  account. 


TO    LITERARY    ASPIRANTS.  55 

Now  Vbat  I  would  say  is  this.  Let  none  enter 
this  field  of  labor,  least  of  all  shrinking,  destitute 
women,  unless  they  are  prepared  for  this  long,  tedi 
ous  ordeal,  and  have  also  the  self-sustaining  convic 
tion  that  they  have  a  God-given  talent.  The  read 
ing  community  is  not  what  it  once  was.  The  world 
is  teeming  with  books — good,  bad,  and  indifferent. 
Publishers  have  a  wide  field  from  which  to  cull. 
There  is  a  great  feast  to  sit  down  to ;  and  the  cloyed 
and  fastidious  taste  demands  dishes  daintily  and 
skillfully  prepared.  How  shall  an  unpracticed  aspi 
rant,  whose  lips  perhaps  have  not  been  touched  with 
the  live  coal  from  the  altar,  successfully  contend 
with  these  ?  How  shall  the  halt  and  maimed  win 
in  such  a  race  ? 

Every  editor's  drawer  is  crammed — every  news 
paper  office  besieged — by  hundreds  doomed  to  dis 
appointment;  not  two  thirds  of  the  present  surfeit 
of  writers,  born  of  the  success  of  a  few,  obtain  even 
a  hearing,  Editors  have  any  quantity  of  MSS.  on 
hand,  which  they  know  will  answer  their  purpose ; 
and  they  have,  they  say,  when  I  have  applied  to 
them  for  those  who  have  written  me  to  do  so,  nei 
ther  time  nor  inclination  to  paragraph,  punctuate, 
revise  and  correct  the  inevitable  mistakes  of  begin 
ners,  even  though  there  may  possibly  be  some  grains 
of  wheat  for  the  seeking. 

To  women,  therefore,  who  are  destitute,  and  rely 
upon  their  pen  for  a  support,  I  would  say,  again,  Do 
any  thing  that  is  honest  that  your  hands  find  to  do, 


56  FRESH    LEAVES. 

but  make  not  authorship,  at  least,  your  sole  depend 
ence  in  the  present  state  of  things. 

JSTow,  having  performed  this  ungrateful  task,  and 
mapped  out  faithfully  the  shoals  and  quicksands,  if 
there  are  among  you  those  whose  mental  and  physi 
cal  muscle  will  stand  the  strain  with  this  army  of 
competitors — and,  above  all,  who  have  the  "barrel 
of  meal  and  cruse  of  oil"  to  fall  back  upon — I  wish 
you  God  speed !  and  none  will  be  happier  than  she, 
who  has  herself  borne  the  burden  and  heat  of  the 
day,  to  see  you  crowned  victor. 


SUMMER    TRAVEL. 

TAKE  a  journey  at  this  elevation  of  the  thermom 
eter  !  Not  I.  Think  of  the  breakfastless  start  be 
fore  daybreak  —  think  of  a  twelve  hours'  ride  on 
the  sunny  side  of  the  cars,  in  the  neighborhood  of 
some  persistent  talker,  rattling  untranslatable  jargon 
into  your  aching  ears ;  think  of  a  hurried  repast,  in 
some  barbarous  half-way  house ;  amid  a  heteroge 
neous  assortment  of  men,  women,  and  children, 
beef  pork,  and  mutton ;  minus  forks,  minus  spoons, 
minus  castor,  minus  come-atable  waiters,  and  four 
shillings  and  indigestion  to  pay.  Think  of  a  "  collis 
ion" —  disemboweled  trunks,  and  a  wooden  leg; 
think  of  an  arrival  at  a  crowded  hotel ;  jammed, 
jaded,  dusty,  and  dolorous ;  think  of  your  closetless 
sentry-box  of  a  room,  infested  by  mosquitoes  and 


SUMMER    TRAVEL.  57 

Eed  Rovers;  bed  too  narrow,  window  too  small, 
candle  too  short,  all  the  world  and  his  wife  a-bed, 
and  the  geography  of  the  house  an  unexplained  rid 
dle.  Think  of  your  unrefreshing,  vapor-bath  sleep  • 
think  of  the  next  morning,  as  seated  on  a  dusty 
trunk,  with  your  hair  drooping  about  your  ears, 
through  which  the  whistle  of  the  cars,  and  the  jig 
gle-joggle  of  the  brakeman,  are  still  resounding ;  you 
try  to  remember,  with  your  hand  on  your  bewild 
ered  forehead,  whether  your  breakfast  robe  is  in 
the  yellow  trunk,  or  the  black  trunk,  and  if  in  either, 
whether  it  is  at  the  top,  bottom,  or  in  the  middle  of 
the  same,  where  your  muslins  and  laces  were  depos 
ited,  what  on  earth  you  did  with  your  dressing 
comb,  and  where  amid  your  luggage,  your  toilet 
slippers  may  be  possibly  located.  Think  of  a  sum 
mons  to  breakfast  at  this  interesting  moment,  the 
sun  meanwhile  streaming  in  through  the  blind 
chinks,  with  volcanic  power.  Think  of  all  that,  T  say. 
Now  if  I  could  travel  incog,  in  masculine  attire, 
no  dresses  to  look  after,  no  muslins  to  rumple,  no 
bonnet  to  soil,  no  tresses  to  keep  smooth,  with  only 
a  hat  and  things,  a  neck-tie  or  two,  a  change  of — of 
shirts — nothing  but  a  moustache  to  twist  into  a 
horn  when  the  dinner  bell  rings ;  just  a  dip  into  a 
wash-basin,  a  clean  dicky,  a  jump  into  a  pair  of — 
trowsers,  and  above  all,  liberty  to  go  where  I  liked, 
without  being  stared  at  or  questioned ;  a  seat  in  a 
chair  on  its  hind-legs,  on  a  breezy  door-step,  a  seat 
on  the  stairs  in  a  wide  hall,  "  taking  notes ;"  a  peep 


58  FRESH    LEAVES. 

everywhere  I  chose,  by  lordly  right  of  my  panta 
loons  ;  nobody  nudging  somebody,  to  inquire  why 
Miss  Spinks  the  authoress  wore  her  hair  in  curls  in 
stead  of  plaits  ;  or  making  the  astounding  discovery 
that  it  was  hips,  not  hoops,  that  made  her  dress 
stand  out — that  now,  would  be  worth  talking 
about :  I  '11  do  it. 

But  stop — I  should  have  to  cut  my  hair  short — 
I  should  have  to  shave  every  morning,  or  at  any 
rate  call  for  hot  water  and  go  through  the  motions ; 
men  would  jostle  rudely  past  me,  just  as  if  they 
never  had  said  such  pretty  things  to  me  in  flounces ; 
I  should  be  obliged,  just  as  I  had  secured  a  nice 
seat  in  the  cars,  to  get  up,  and  give  it  to  some  im 
perious  woman,  who  would  not  even  say  "  thank 
you ;"  I  should  have  to  look  on  with  hungry  eyes 
till  "  the  ladies"  were  all  served  at  table ;  I  should 
have  to  pick  up  their  fans,  and  reticules,  and  hand 
kerchiefs  whenever  they  chose  to  drop  them ;  I 
should  have  to  give  up  the  rocking-chairs,  arm 
chairs,  and  sofas  for  their  use,  and  be  called  ua 
brute"  at  that ;  I  should  have  to  rush  out  of  the 
cars,  with  five  minutes'  grace,  at  some  stopping 
place,  to  get  a  glass  of  milk,  for  some  "  crying  ba 
by,"  with  a  contracted  swallowing  apparatus,  and 
be  pursued  for  life  by  the  curses  of  its  owner,  be 
cause  the  whistle  sounded  while  his  two  shilling 
tumbler  was  yet  in  the  voracious  baby's  tight  grip. 
No — no — I  '11  stay  a  woman,  and  what's  more,  I  '11 
stay  at  home. 


A    STORY    FOR    OLD    HUSBANDS,    ETC.  69 

A    GENTLE    HINT. 

IN  most  of  the  New  York  shop  windows,  one 
reads :  u  Here  we  speak  French ;"  "  Here  we  speak 
Spanish;"  "Here  we  speak  German;"  "Here  we 
speak  Italian."  I  suggest  an  improvement — "  Here 
we  speak  the  Truth" 


A  STORY   FOR   OLD   HUSBANDS    WITH 
YOUNG    WIVES. 

"I  was  an  old  fool!  Yes — I  was  an  old  fool; 
that's  all  there  is  about  it.  I  ought  to  have  known 
better ;  she  was  not  to  blame,  poor  thing ;  she  is  but 
a  child  yet ;  and  these  baubles  pleased  her  ambitious 
mother's  eye.  It  was  not  the  old  man,  but  his 
money — his  money — I  might  have  known  it.  May 
and  December — May  and  December — pshaw !  how 
could  I  ever  have  believed,  that  Mary  Terry  could 
love  an  old  fellow  like  me  ?"  and  Mark  Ware  sur 
veyed  himself  in  the  large  parlor  mirror. 

"  See  ! — it  reflects  a  portly  old  man  of  sixty,  with 
ruddy  face,  snow-white  hair,  and  eyes  from  which 
the  light  of  youth  has  long  since  departed."  And 
yet  there  is  fire  in  the  old  man's  veins  too ;  see  how 
he  strides  across  the  carpet,  ejaculating,  with  fresh 
emphasis,  "  Yes,  I  was  an  old  fool ! — an  old  fool ! 
But  I  will  be  kind  to  her ;  I'm  not  the  man  to  ty- 


60  FRESH    LEAVES. 

rannize  over  a  young  girl,  because  her  mother  took 
her  out  of  the  nursery  to  make  her  my  wife.  I  see 
now  it  is  not  in  reason  for  a  young  girl  like  her  to 
stay  contentedly  at  home  with  my  frosty  head  and 
gouty  feet.  Poor  little  Mary !  No — Til  not  punish 
her  because  she  can  not  love  me ;  she  shall  have 
what  she  wants,  and  go  where  she  likes ;  her  mother 
is  only  too  proud  to  trot  her  out,  as  the  wife  of  the 
rich  Mark  Ware.  If  that  will  make  them  both 
happy,  let  them  do  it ;  may  be" — and  Mark  Ware 
paused — "  may  be,  after  she  has  seen  what  that 
Dead  Sea  apple — the  world — is  made  of,  she  will 
come  back  and  love  the  old  man  a  little — may  be — 
who  knows  ?  No  woman  who  is  believed  in,  and 
well  treated,  ever  makes  a  bad  wife;  there  never 
was  a  bad  wife  yet,  but  there  was  a  bad  husband 
first;  that's  gospel — Mark's  gospel,  anyhow,  and 
Mark  Ware  is  going  to  act  upon  it.  Mary  shall  go 
to  the  ball  to-night,  with  her  mother,  and  I  will  stay 
at  home  and  nurse  my  patience  and  my  gouty  leg. 
There's  no  evil  in  her ;  she's  as  pure  as  a  lily,  and  if 
she  wants  to  see  the  world,  why — she  shall  see  it ; 
and  though  I  can't  go  dancing  round  with  her,  I 
never  will  dim  her  bright  eyes — no — no  1" 

"  That  will  do,  Tiffy ;  another  pin  in  this  lace ; 
now  move  that  rose  in  my  hair  a  little  to  the  left ; 
so — that  will  do." 

"  That  will  do  /"  Tame  praise,  for  that  small  Gre 
cian  head,  with  its  crown  of  braided  tresses;  for  the 


A    STORY    FOR    OLD    HUSBANDS,    ETC.  61 

full,  round  throat,  and  snowy,  sloping  shoulders  ;  for 
the  round,  ivory  arms,  and  tapering,  rose-tipped  fin 
gers  ;  for  the  lovely  bosom,  and  dainty  waist.  Well 
might  such  beauty  dazzle  Mark  Ware's  eyes,  till  he 
failed  to  discern  the  distance  betwixt  May  and  De 
cember. 

Mark  Ware  had  rightly  read  Mary.  She  was 
guileless  and  pure,  as  he  had  said ;  and  child  as  she 
was,  there  was  that  in  her  manner,  before  which  the 
most  libidinous  eye  would  have  shrunk  abashed. 

When  the  young  bride  first  realized  the  import  of 
those  words  she  had  been  made  to  utter,  "  till  death 
do  us  part,"  she  looked  forward,  with  shuddering 
horror,  at  the  long,  monotonous,  weary  years  before 
her.  Her  home  seemed  a  prison,  and  Mark  Ware 
the  keeper;  its  very  splendor  oppressed  her;  and 
she  chafed  and  fretted  in  her  gilded  fetters,  while 
her  restless  heart  cried  out — anywhere  but  home  ! 
Must  she  sit  there,  in  her  prison-house,  day  after 
day,  listening  only  to  the  repinings  of  her  own  trou^ 
bled  heart?  Must  the  bee  and  the  butterfly  only  be 
free  to  revel  in  the  bright  sunshine  ?  Had  God 
made  her  beauty  to  fade  in  the  stifling  atmosphere 
of  darkened  parlors,  listening  to  the  complaints  of 
querulous  old  age  ?  Every  pulse  of  her  heart  re 
belled.  How  could  her  mother  have  thus  sold  her? 
How  could  Mark  Ware  have  so  unmagnanimously 
accepted  the  compulsory  sacrifice  ?  Why  not  have 
shown  her  the  world  and  let  her  choose  for  herself? 
0  anywhere — anywhere — from  such  a  home  ! 


62  FRESH    LEAVES. 

There  was  no  lack  of  invitations  abroad ;  for  Mary 
had  flashed  across  the  fashionable  horizon,  like  some 
bright  comet;  eclipsing  all  the  reigning  beauties. 
No  ball,  no  party,  no  dinner,  was  thought  a  success 
without  her.  Night  after  night  found  her  en  route 
to  some  gay  assemblage.  To  her  own  astonishment 
and  her  foolish  mother's  delight,  her  husband  never 
remonstrated;  on  the  contrary,  she  often  found 
upon  her  dressing-table,  some  choice  little  orna 
ment,  which  he  had  provided  for  the  occasion ;  and 
Mary,  as  she  fastened  it  in  her  hair,  or  bosom,  would 
say,  bitterly,  "  He  is  anxious  that  I,  like  the  other 
appendages  of  his  establishment,  should  reflect  credit 
on  his  faultless  taste." 

Mistaken  Mary  I 

Time  passed  on.  Mark  Ware  was  "  patient,"  as 
he  promised  himself  to  be.  His  evenings  were  not 
so  lonely  now,  for  his  little  babe  kept  him  company ; 
the  reprieved  nurse,  only  too  glad  to  escape  to  her 
pink  ribbons  and  a  "  chat  with  John  at  the  back 
gate."  It  was  a  pretty  sight — Mark  and  the  babe  I 
Old  age  and  infancy  are  always  a  touching  sight 
together.  Not  a  smile  or  a  cloud  passed  over  that 
little  face,  that  did  not  wake  up  all  the  father  in 
Mark  Ware's  heart ;  and  he  paced  the  room  with  it, 
or  rocked  it  to  sleep  on  his  breast,  talking  to  it,  as  if 
it  could  understand  the  strong,  deep  love,  of  which 
it  was  the  unconscious  object. 

"  I  am  weary  of  all  this,"  said  Mark's  young  wife, 


A    STORY    FOR    OLD    HUSBANDS,    ETC.  63 

as  she  stepped  into  her  carriage,  at  the  close  of  a 
brilliant  ball.  "I  am  weary  of  seeing  the  same 
faces,  and  hearing  the  same  stupid  nonsense,  night 
after  night.  I  wonder  shall  I  ever  be  happy  ?  I 
wonder  shall  I  ever  love  any  thing,  or  anybody? 
Mamma  is  proud  of  me,  because  I  am  beautiful  and 
rich,  but  she  does  not  love  me.  Mark  is  proud  of 
me" — and  Mary's  pretty  lip  curled  scornfully.  "  Life 
is  so  weary,  and  I  am  only  eighteen  I"  and  Mary 
sighed  heavily. 

On  whirled  the  carriage  through  the  deserted 
streets ;  deserted — save  by  some  inveterate  pleasure- 
seeker  like  herself,  from  whom  pleasure  forever  flees. 
Occasionally  a  lamp  twinkled  from  some  upper  win 
dow,  where  a  half-starved  seamstress  sat  stitching 
her  life  away,  or  a  heart-broken  mother  bent  over 
the  dead  form  of  a  babe,  which  her  mother's  heart 
could  ill  spare,  although  she  knew  not  where  to  find 
bread  for  the  remaining  babes  who  wept  beside  her. 
Now  and  then,  a  woman,  lost  to  all  that  makes  wo 
man  lovely,  flaunted  under  the  flickering  street- 
lamps,  while  her  mocking  laugh  rang  out  on  the 
night  air.  Mary  shuddered,  and  drew  back — there 
was  that  in  its  hollowness  which  might  make  even 
devils  tremble.  Overhead  the  sentinel  stars  kept 
their  tireless  watch,  and  Mary's  heart  grew  soft 
under  their  gentle  influence,  and  tears  stole  from 
beneath  her  lashes,  and  lay  like  pearls  upon  her  bo 
som. 

"  You  need  not  wait  to  undress  me,"  said  Mary 


64  FRESH    LEAVES. 

to  the  weary-looking  waiting-maid,  as  she  averted 
her  swollen  eyes  from  her  gaze — and  taking  the 
lamp  from  her  hand,  Mary  passed  up  to  her  cham 
ber.  So  noiseless  was  the  fall  of  her  light  foot  upon 
the  carpet,  that  Mark  did  not  know  she  had  en 
tered.  He  sat  with  his  back  to  the  door,  bending 
over  the  cradle  of  his  child,  till  his  snow-white  locks 
rested  on  its  rosy  cheeks ;  talking  to  it,  as  was  his 
wont,  to  beguile  his  loneliness. 

"  Mary's  forehead — Mary's  eyes — Mary's  mouth 
— no  more  like  your  old  father  than  a  rosebud  is 
like  a  chestnut-burr.  You  will  love  the  lonely  old 
man,  little  one,  and  perhaps  she  will,  by-and-by: 
who  knows  ?"  and  Mark's  voice  trembled. 

"  She  will — she  does" — said  Mary,  dropping  on 
her  knees  at  the  cradle  of  her  child,  and  burying  her 
face  in  Mark's  hands ;  "  my  noble,  patient  husband !" 

"  You  don't  mean  that  ?"  said  Mark,  holding  her 
off  at  arm's-length,  and  looking  at  her  through  a 
mist  of  tears ;  "  you  don't  mean  that  you  will  love 
an  old  fellow  like  me  ?  God  bless  you,  Mary — God 
forever  bless  you  !  I  have  been  very — very  lonely," 
— and  Mark  wept  for  sheer  happiness. 

The  gaping  world,  the  far-sighted  world,  the 
charitable  world,  shook  its  wise  head,  when  the 
star  of  fashion  became  a  fixed  star.  Some  said 
"her  health  must  be  failing;"  others,  that  "her 
husband  had  become  jealous  at  last;"  while  old 
stagers  maliciously  insinuated  that  it  were  wise  to 


BREAKFAST    A3   THE    PAXES*.  65 

retire  on  fresh  laurels.  But  none  said — what  /say 
— that  a  true  woman's  heart  may  always  be  won— 
ay,  and  kept,  too — by  any  husband  who  does  not 
consider  it  beneath  him  to  step  off  the  pedestal  of 
his  "  dignity"  to  learn  how. 


BREAKFAST    AT    THE    PAXES'. 

"  MORNING  paper,  John  ?" 

<;Didn't  come  this  morning,  mem;  I  inquired  at 
the  office  as  I  came  up  with  the  breakfast,  mem ; 
none  there,  mem." 

How  provoking !  What  is  breakfast  without  the 
morning  paper?  Coffee  and  eggs  are  well  enough, 
but  they  don't  tell  a  body  whether  the  Pacific  has 
arrived,  or  Greeley's  head  is  safe  on  his  non-resist 
ant  shoulders  (I  wish  that  man  could  fight) ;  or 
whether  breadstuffs  have  "  riz,"  as  every  house 
keeper  knows  they  ought  to ;  or  whether  Olmsted's 
new  book  is  selling  as  it  deserves  (were  it  only  for 
that  racy  little  morceau  about  his  ride  with  Jenny, 
the  mare)  ;  or  whether  the  "  Onguent  warranted  to 
raise  a  moustache  and  whiskers  in  six  weeks"  is 
still  on  the  sprout ;  or  whether  Griswold  is  proven 
a  saint  or  a  sinner ;  or  whether  the  amiable  young 
man,  who  advertised  the  other  day  for  "  board  in  a 
family  where  there  are  no  babies,"  has  found  his 
desert-s;  or  whether  the  philanthropic  firm  of 
6* 


66  FRESH    LEAVES. 

M'Musli  &  Co.  are  still  persisting  in  that  '*  ruinous 
sacrifice,"  for  the  benefit  of  a  credulous  public  in 
general,  and  themselves  in  particular;  or  whether 
Barnum's  head  is  really  under  water,  or  whether 
he  has  only  made  a  dive  to  grab  some  new  mer 
maid  ;  or  whether  the  Regular  Male  Line  via  (no 
body  knows  where),  is  an  heir  line;  or  whether 
there  are  any  lectures  to  be  delivered  to-night 
worth  foregoing  a  cosy  fireside,  and  freezing  the  tip 
of  one's  nose  to  hear.  How  am  I  going  to  find  out 
all  this,  I  should  like  to  know,  without  the  morning 
paper  ?  (Long  life  to  the  inventor  of  it !  ) 

Oh !  here  comes  Mr.  Pax  with  one — good  soul — 
he  has  been  out  in  his  slippers,  and  bought  one. 
Now  I  shall  find  out  all  about  every  thing,  and — 
who  did  what.  See  what  a  thing  it  is  to  have  a 
husband !  No,  I  shan't  either :  may  I  be  kissed  if 
Pax  has  not  sat  down  to  read  that  paper  himself, 
instead  of  giving  it  to  me.  Now  I  like  that;  I  dare 
say  he  thinks  because  he  is  connected  with  the 
Press  that  he  should  have  the  first  reading  of  it. 
Am  not  I  connected  with  the  Press  I'd  like  to 
know  ?  I  guess  you'd  have  thought  so,  had  you 
seen  me  squeezing  into  the  Opera  House  the  other 
night  to  hear  Everett's  lecture. 

Perhaps  he  is  going  to  read  it  aloud  to  me — I'll 
sip  my  coffee  and  wait  a  bit.  Good  Pax !  how  I 
have  maligned  him ;  what  an  impatient  wretch  I 
am.  I  think  impatience  is  a  fault  of  mine.  I  won 
der  is  it  a  fault  ?  I  wonder  if  I  can  help  it,  if  it  is  ? 


BREAKFAST    AT    THE    PAXES*.  67 

I  wonder  if  people  weren't  made  that  way  the  year 
I  was  bom  ?  Yes ;  Pax  must  be  going  to  read  me 
the  paper;  that's  it.  Good  Pax — how  well  he 
looks  in  that  Turkish  breakfast-jacket ;  he  has  really 
a  nice  profile  and  pretty  hand.  I  can't  say  that  he 
has  a  very  saintly  under  lip,  but  I  have  known 
more  saintly  looking  ones  do  naughtier  things! 
Yes ;  I'll  sip  my  coffee — he  is  undoubtedly  going  to 
read  the  paper  to  me;  no,  he  isn't  either;  he  means 
to  devour  the  whole  of  it  solus.  I  won't  stand  it — 
hem — no  reply — hem — none  so  deaf  as  those  who 
won't  hear. 

"Pax!" 

"  Well,  dear"  (without  raising  his  eyes). 

"  Pax !  what  is  there  interesting  in  that  paper  ?" 

(Pax  still  reading  intently.)  "  Nothing,  my  dear, 
absolutely  nothing." 

Humph !  wonder  if  it  takes  a  man  a  whole  hour 
to  read  "nothing?" 

Now,  do  you  suppose  I  whined  about  that  ?  cried 
till  my  eyes  looked  as  though  they  were  bound 
with  pink  tape?  Not  I.  I  just  sat  down  and 
wrote  an  article  about  it  for  the  "  WEEKLY  MONOP 
OLIZER,"  and  when  it  is  published,  as  published  it 
will  be,  I  shall  be  disinterested  enough  to  hand  Pax 
my  paper  to  read  first !  Then — when  he  reads  the 
article,  and  looking  up  reproachfully,  says :  "  Mrs. 
Pax !"  it  will  be  my  turn  not  to  hear,  you  know  ; 
and  when  he  gets  up,  and  laying  his  connubial  paw 
on  my  shoulder,  says:  "Mrs.  Pax,  do  you  know 


68  FRESH    LEAVES. 

any  thing  about  this  article  in  the  Weekly  Monop 
olizer?"     I  shall  reply,  with  lamb-like  innocence: 
''Nothing,  my  dear,  absolutely  nothing!" 
Won't  that  floor  him  ? 


GIRLS'    BOARDING-SCHOOLS. 

HAD  I  twenty  daughters,  which  I  regret  to  say  I 
have  not,  not  one  of  them  should  ever  enter  a 
"Boarding-school."  I  beg  pardon;  I  should  say 
"  Institute ;"  schools  are  exploded ;  every  two-year- 
older  learns  his  A  B  C  now  at  an  "  Institute," 
though  that  institute,  when  hunted  down,  may  con 
sist  of  a  ten-feet-square  basement  room.  But  this 
is  a  digression. 

To  every  mother  who  is  contemplating  sending 
her  daughter  to  a  boarding-school  I  would  say :  Let 
neither  your  indolence,  nor  the  omnipotent  voice  of 
fashion,  nor  high-sounding  circulars,  induce  you  to 
remove  her  from  under  your  own  personal  care  and 
supervision,  at  a  time  when  the  physique  of  this 
future  wife  and  mother  requires  a  lynx-eyed  watch 
fulness  on  your  part,  which  no  institute  ever  has — 
ever  will  supply.  This  is  a  point  which  I  am 
astonished  that  parents  seem  so  utterly  to  overlook. 
Every  mother  knows  how  fatal  wet  feet,  or  insuf 
ficient  clothing,  may  be  to  a  young  girl  at  the  crit 
ical  age  at  which  they  are  generally  sent  away  to 


GIRLS'  BOARDING-SCHOOLS.  69 

school.  It  is  not  enough  that  you  place  India- 
rubbers,  thick-soled  shoes,  and  flannels  in  the  trunk 
which  bears  the  little  exile  company ;  they  will  not 
insure  her  from  disease  there.  It  is  not  enough  that 
you  say  to  her,  "  My  dear,  be  careful  of  your  choice 
of  companions,"  when  she  lias  no  choice ;  when  her 
bed-fellows  and  room-mates — the  latter  often  three 
or  four  in  number — are  what  chance  and  the  rail 
roads  send ;  for  what  teacher,  with  the  best  inten 
tions,  ever  gives  this  subject  the  attention  which  it 
deserves,  or  which  a  mother's  anxious  heart  asks  ? 
That  the  distant  home  of  her  daughter's  room-mates 
is  located  within  the  charmed  limits  of  fashion ;  that 
a  carriage  with  liveried  servants  (that  disgusting 
libel  on  republicanism),  stands  daily  before  their 
door;  that  the  dresses  of  these  room-mates  are 
made  in  the  latest  style,  and  their  wrists  and  ears 
decked  with  gold  and  precious  stones — is  an  affirm 
ative  answer  to  these  questions  to  satisfy  a  true 
mother  ? 

No- — and  it  is  not  the  blushing  country  maiden, 
with  her  simple  wardrobe,  and  simpler  manners, 
whom  that  mother  has  to  fear  for  her  child's  com 
panion  or  bed-fellow.  It  is  the  over-dressed,  vain, 
vapid,  brainless  offshoot  of  upstart  aristocracy,  who 
would  ridicule  the  simple  gingham  in  which  that 
country  girl's  mother  studied  geography,  and  which 
fabric  she  very  properly  considers  quite  good  enough 
for  her  child,  and  which  is  much  more  appropriate 
in  the  school- room  than  silk  or  satin.  It  is  this 


70  FRESH    LEAVES. 

child  of  the  upstart  rich  mother,  whose  priceless  in 
fancy  and  childhood  have  been  spent  with  illiterate 
servants ;  with  the  exception  of  the  hour  after  des 
sert,  when  she  was  reminded  that  she  had  a  mother, 
by  being  taken  in  an  embroidered  robe  to  be  exhib 
ited  for  a  brief  space  to  her  guests.  It  is  this  girl, 
whose  childhood,  as  I  said,  has  been  passed  with 
servants,  peeping  into  the  doubtful  books  with 
which  doubtful  servants  often  beguile  the  tedious 
hours  (for  there  are  bad  servants  as  well  as  bad 
masters  and  mistresses) — this  girl,  lying  awake  in 
her  little  bed,  hearing  unguarded  details  of  servants' 
amours,  while  her  mother  dances  away  the  hours  so 
pregnant  with  fate  to  that  listening  child.  It  is  such 
a  girl,  more  to  be  pitied  than  blamed,  whose  exist 
ence  is  to  be  recognized  by  her  thoughtless  mother 
only,  when  her  "  coming  out,"  delayed  till  the  latest 
posssible  period,  forces  her  reluctantly  to  yield  to  a 
younger  aspirant  her  own  claims  to  admiration. 
This  girl  whose  wealth,  and  the  social  position  aris 
ing  from  it,  so  dazzles  the  eyes  of  proprietors  of 
"  Institutes"  that  they  are  incapable  of  perceiving, 
or  unwilling  to  admit,  her  great  moral  and  mental 
delinquencies;  it  is  such  a  companion  that  a  true 
mother  has  to  fear  for  her  pure-minded,  simple- 
hearted  young  daughter,  leaving  for  the  first  time  the 
guarded  threshold  and  healthful  atmosphere  of  home. 
And  when  after  months  have  passed — and  insuf 
ficient  exercise,*  imperfect  ventilation,  and  improper 

*  Is  a  formal,  listless -walk,  in  a  half-mile  procession,  to  answer 


CLOSET    MEDITATIONS.  71 

companionship,  have  transformed  her  rosy,  healthy, 
simple-hearted  child,  to  a  pale,  languid,  spineless, 
dressy  young  woman,  with  a  smattering  of  fashion 
able  accomplishments,  and  an  incurable  distaste  of 
simple,  home  pleasures — will  it  restore  the  bloom  to 
her  cheek,  the  spring  to  her  step,  the  fresh  inno 
cence  to  her  heart,  to  say,  "but  the  school  was 
fashionable  and  so  well  recommended  ?" 


CLOSET    MEDITATIONS, 

NOT  FOUND  IN  JAY  OR  DODDRIDGE. 

SHALL  I  ever  be  unhappy  again  ?  Six  big  closets 
with  shelves  and  drawers !  What  a  Godsend ! 
You  laugh !  you  are  unable  to  comprehend  how 
such  joyful  emotions  can  spring  from  so  trivial  a 
cause. 

Trivial !  Did  you  ever  board  out  ?  Did  you 
ever  stand  in  the  midst  of  your  gas-lighted,  damask- 
curtained,  vel vet-chair edj.closetless  hotel  (yes — hotel) 
apartments,  with  a  six-cent  ink-bottle  between  your 
perplexed  thumb  and  finger,  taxing  your  brain,  as  it 
was  never  taxed  before,  to  discover  an  oasis  where 
to  deposit  it,  when  not  in  use  ? 

the  purpose  of  exercfsz  for  young,  growing  girls  confined  at  least 
ten  hours  a  day  over  their  lessons,  and  crowded  at  night  into 
insufficient  sleeping-rooms? — from  which  the  highest  prices 
paid  for  tuition,  so  far  as  my  observation  extends,  furnish  no 
immunity. 


72  FRESH    LEAVES. 

Trivial?-  Did  you  ever  live  for  a  series  of  years 
with  your  head  in  a  trunk  ?  Did  you  ever  see  your 
ghost-like  habiliments  dangling  day  after  day  from 
pegs  in  the  wall  ?  Did  you  ever  turn  away  your 
disgusted  eyes,  as  the  remorseless  chambermaid 
whirled  clouds  of  dust  over  their  unprotected  fab 
rics  ?  Did  you  ever,  as  you  lay  in  bed  of  a  morn 
ing,  exhaust  your  ingenuity  in  devising  some  means 
of  relief  ?  Did  you  ever,  exulting  in  your  superior 
acumen,  rush  out,  and  purchase  at  your  own  ex 
pense,  a  curtain  to  cover  them  ?  Did  you  ever  jam 
off  all  your  ringer  nails  trying  to  drive  it  up  ?  (for 
what  woman  ever  yet  hit  a  nail  on  the  head  ?)  Did 
you  ever  have  that  dusty  curtain  drop  down  on 
your  nicely-smoothed  hair,  nine  times  out  of  ten 
when  you  went  to  it  for  a  dress  ?  Did  you  ever  set 
fire  to  it  with  a  candle,  when  in  an  abstracted  state 
of  mind  ? 

Trivial  ?  Did  you  ever  implore  a  white-aproned 
waiter,  with  tears  in  your  eyes,  and  twenty- five 
cents  in  your  hand,  to  bring  you  an  empty  cigar- 
box  to  keep  your  truant  slippers  in  ?  Did  you  ever 
stifle  with  closed  windows,  because  if  you  threw 
them  up,  you  would  throw  out  your  books,  which 
were  piled  on  the  window  ledge  ?  Were  you  ever 
startled  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  by  the  giving 
way  of  a  solitary  nail,  on  which  were  hung  a  bag  of 
buttons,  a  bag  of  hooks  and  eyes,  a  child's  satchel,  a 
child's  slate,  a  basket  of  oyster  crackers,  a  bag  of 
chess-men,  and — your  hoops  ? 


FEMININE    VIEW    OF    NAPOLEON.  73 

Trivial?  Did  you  ever  partially  carry  out  the 
curse  which  was  passed  on  Edeu's  tempter,  the  ser 
pent,  as,  with  a  long-handled  umbrella,  you  explored, 
for  some  missing  shoe,  the  unknown  regions  under 
the  bed  ?  Did  you  ever  sit  on  your  best  bonnet  ? 
Did  you  ever  step  into  your  husband's  hat  ?  Did 
you  ever  tear  a  zig-zag  rent  in  your  favorite  dress, 
and  find,  on  looking  for  pieces  of  the  same  to  mend 
it,  that  you  had  given  them  away  to  your  wash 
woman,  with  other  uncounted  needfuls,  because  you 
had  no  place  to  keep  them  ?  Did  you  ever  stand  in 
dismay  over  your  furs  and  woolens  in  spring,  and 
your  muslins,  grenadines,  and  bareges,  in  autumn  ? 

Trivial?  Ah! — you  never  witnessed  the  cold 
blooded  indifference  with  which  hotel-keepers,  and 
landlords  generally,  shrug  their  shoulders,  as  survey 
ing  your  rooms,  and  taking  a  coup  deceit  of  your  fem 
inine  effects,  you  pathetically  exclaim,  with  dropped 
hands  and  intonation — "  No  closets  !" 


A  FEMININE  VIEW  OF  NAPOLEON  AS  A 
HUSBAND. 

IT  is  said  that  writers  of  books  seldom  read 
many.  The  "  Confidential  Letters  of  Napoleon  and 
Josephine"  had  not  been  published  when  that  re 
mark  was  made.  The  Napoleon-mad  author,  Mr. 
Abbot,  says,  in  his  Preface :  "  We  are  familiar  with 
7 


74  FRESH  LEAVES. 

him  as  the  warrior,  the  statesman,  the  great  admin 
istrator — but  here  we  behold  him  as  the  husband, 
the  father,  the  brother,  moving  freely  amid  all  the 
tender  relations  of  domestic  life.  His  heart  is  here 
revealed,"  etc.  I  suggest  to  Mr.  Abbot  (for  whom, 
apart  from  this  extraordinary  hallucination,  I  have  a 
great  respect),  the  following  amendment  of  the 
above  sentence,  viz. :  his  want  of  heart  is  here  re 
vealed  ;  but  let  that  pass. 

I  have  devoured  the  book  at  a  sitting,  and  it  has 
given  me,  as  do  stimulants  generally,  mental  or 
otherwise,  a  villainous  headache.  With  the  sad  fato 
of  the  peerless  Josephine  fresh  in  my  mind,  I  read 
with  an  impatient  pshaw  !  the  burning  billet-doux, 
addressed  to  her  by  the  man  who  could  coolly  thrust 
her  aside  for  his  mad  ambition.  Hear  what  he  once 
said: 

"  Death  alone  can  break  the  union,  which  love, 
sentiment,  and  sympathy  have  formed.  A  thou 
sand  and  a  thousand  kisses." 

Also, 

"I  hope  very  soon  to  be  in  your  arms;  I  love 
you  most  passionately  (a  lafureur)" 

Also, 

"  I  hope  in  a  little  time  to  fold  you  in  my  arms, 
and  cover  you  with  kisses  burning  as  the  equator." 

Also,  this  consistent  lover  begs  from  her  whom 
he  afterward  deserted, 

u  Love  without  bounds,  and  fidelity  without  limit." 

How  very  like  a  man  ! 


FEMININE    VIEW    OF    NAPOLEON.  /O 

Well,  I  turned  over  the  pages,  and  read  with 
moistened  eyes,  for  the  hundredth  time,  the  wretch 
ed  state  farce  enacted  at  the  divorce  ;  and  with 
fresh  admiration  perused  the  magnanimous  and 
memorable  reply  of  the  queenly  Josephine,  to  the 
brilliant  CTl?^iM^jntellectua1  but  selfish,  imperious 
yet  fascinating  ISTapoteon.  Ah  !  then  I  would  have 
led  away  his  victim,  s^j^of  herself,  out  of  sight, 
i,  and  hearing  of  ttSJfcld,  cruel  man,  who, 
>  suited  his  whim,  caprice,  or  convenience ; 
who,  when  weary  of  the  tame,  spiritless  Maria 
Louise,  returned  secretly  to  the  intoxicating  pres 
ence  of  the  bewitching  Josephine ;  whom,  though 
repudiating,  he  yet  controlled,  down  to  the  lowest 
menial  in  her  household,  down  to  the  color  of  their 
jackets  and  hose ;  quite  safe,  in  always  appending, 
with  gracious  condescension,  permission  "  to  please 
herself,"  to  one  whose  greatest  pleasure,  he  well 
knew,  was  to  kiss  his  imperial  shoe-tie. 

My  love  and  pity  for  ner  merge  (momentarily) 
into  contempt,  when  she  abjectly  begs  for  the 
crumbs  of  his  favor,  that  fall  from  happier  favorites  j 
for  (to  quote  the  touching  words  of  her  who  would 
have  shared  his  exile  had  not  death  prevented,  when 
the  woman  for  whom  she  had  been  cast  aside,  by  a 
retributive  justice,  deserted  him  in  his  extremity) 
'•  he  could  forget  me  when  he  tuas  happy  /"  Ay, 
it  was  when  pleasure  palled,  when  friends  proved 
false,  when  the  star  of  his  destiny  paled,  when  he 
needed  the  noble  Josephine,  that  he  sought  her. 


76  FRESH    LEAVES. 

And  she  ?  When  pealing  bells  and  roaring  can 
non  announced  to  France  that  her  rival  had  pre 
sented  her  husband  the  long-desired  heir ;  she,  upon 
whose  quivering  heart  every  stroke  of  those  joyous 
bells  must  have  smitten  like  a  death-knell ;  she,  the 
deserted  wife,  hung  festal  wreaths  over  the  grave 
of  her  hopes,  gave  jewels  to  the  messenger  who 
brought  her  the  newsof  his  happiness,  and  ordered 
a  fete  in  honor  of  the^Pftng  heir.  Match  me  that, 
who  can,  in  the  wide  annals  of  man's  history  ? 
But,  oh !  when  midnight  came  on,  and  garlands 
drooped,  and  bright  eyes  closed,  and  tripping  feet 
were  stilled,  when  the  farce  was  played  out,  and  the 
iron  hand  of  court  etiquette  was  lifted  from  off  that 
loving,  throbbing,  bursting  heart,  it  thus  poured  it 
self  out  to  Napoleon  : 

"  She  (Maria  Louise),  can  not  be  more  tenderly 
devoted  to  you  than  I ;  but  she  has  been  enabled  to 
contribute  more  to  your  happiness,  by  securing  that 
of  France.  She  has  then  a  right  to  your  first  feel 
ings,  to  all  your  cares ;  and  I,  who  was  but  your 
companion  in  times  of  difficulty,  I  can  not  ask  more 
than  a  place  in  your  affections  far  removed  from 
that  occupied  by  the  Empress  Louise.  Not  till  you 
shall  have  ceased  to  watch  by  her  bed,  not  till  you  are 
weary  of  embracing  your  son,  will  you  take  the  pen 
to  converse  with  your  best  friend.  I \uill  wait" 

The  answer  to  the  touching  letter,  from  which 
this  is  an  extract  (and  every  woman  with  a  heart, 
who  reads  it,  can  measure  the  height  and  depth  of 


FEMININE    VIEW    OF    NAPOLEON.  77 

its  anguish),  was  the  following  verbal,  the  following 
delicate  message,  through  Eugene  ! 

"  Tell  your  mother  I  would  have  written  to  her 
already,  had  I  not  been  completely  absorbed  in  the 
pleasure  of  looking  upon  my  son." 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  evening  she  received 
the  much-coveted  line  from  his  own  hand ;  in  which 
he  seemed  to  have  been  able  at  last  to  remember 
somebody  beside  himself ;  Tind  for  which  the  all-en 
during,  all-forgiving  Josephine  adores  as  a  gotl, 
"  the  man  who,  when  he  willed,  could  be  the  most 
delightful  of  men."  Nobody  will  deny  the  match 
less  tact  of  the  lines  which  dried  poor  Josephine's 
tears : 

"This  infant,  in  concert  with  our  Eugene,  will 
constitute  my  happiness,  and  that  of  France." 

But  the  man  "  who  could  be  so  delightful  when 
he  willed,"  did  not,  any  more  than  the  rest  of  his 
sex,  always  will  it.  Motes  and  butterflies  seek  the 
sunbeams,  and  the  friends  of  poor  Josephine's  hap 
pier  days,  forsook  her  for  those  whom  Fortune  smiled 
upon.  Malice,  always  on  tiptoe  to  whisper  into  the 
tortured  ear,  told  her  of  the  ll  happiness'1  of  the  in 
constant  Napoleon ;  and  with  the  birds,  flowers,  and 
fountains  of  Malmaison  mocking  her  tears,  her 
crushed  heart  thus  sobs  itself  out  to  the  emperor : 

"  I  limit  myself  in  asking  one  favor  •  it  is,  that 
you,  yourself,  will  seek  means,  sometimes  to  convince 
me,  and  those  who  surround  me" — (mark  how  strong 
and  deathless  must  be  the  love  that  could  thus 


78  FRESH    LEAVES. 

abjectly  sue) — "that  I  have  still  a  place  in  your 
memory,  and  a  large  share  of  your  esteem  and 
friendship.  These  means,  whatever  they  may  be, 
will  soothe  my  anguish,  without  the  danger,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  of  compromising  that  which  is  more 
important  than  all  together,  the  happiness  of  your 
majesty" 

Well,  what  was  the^mswer  of  "his  majesty"  to 
the  tortured  Josephine,  in  whose  heart,  his  majesty 
boasted  that  "  he  held  the  first  place,  and  her  chil 
dren  by  a  former  husband  next,  and  that  she  did 
right  thus  to  love  him !"  What  was  his  majesty's 
answer  to  her,  whom  he  wished  to  ''cover  with 
kisses  burning  as  the  equator,"  "  whom  he  would 
wish  to  imprison  in  his  heart,  lest  she  should  es 
cape  ;"  "  the  beautiful,  the  good  one,  all  unequaled, 
all  divine,"  to  whom  he  had  "sent  thousands  of 
kisses,  burning  as  his  heart,  pure  as  her  own," 
whom  "he  loved  a  la  fureur?"  What  was  his 
majesty's  answer  to  the  weary,  weeping,  faithful 
watcher  at  Malmaison  ? 

"  I  have  received  your  letter  of  the  19th  of  April ; 
it  is  in  a  very  lad  style" 

Could  any  thing  be  more  coolly  diabolical  ?  0, 
foolish  Josephine !  with  all  your  tact  and  wisdom, 
not  to  have  found  out  that  man  (with  rare  excep 
tions)  is  unmagnanimous  j  that  to  pet  and  fondle 
him  is  to  forge  your  own  chains ;  that  the  love 
which  is  sure  is  to  him  worthless;  that  variety  is  as 
necessary  to  his  existence,  as  a  looking-glass  and  a 


FIRST    PURE.  79 

cigar;  and  that  his  vows  are  made,  like  women's 
hearts,  to  break. 

And  yet,  how  surely,  even  in  this  world,  retri 
bution  follows.  The  dreary  rock  of  St.  Helena; 
the  dilapidated,  vermin-infested  lodgings ;  the  petty, 
grinding,  un-let-up-able  tyranny  of  the  lynx-eyed 
foe ;  the  unalloyed,  unassuaged  anguish  of  hydra- 
headed  disease ;  the  merciless  separation  from  the 
child,  who  had  dug  poor  Josephine's  premature 
grave;  the  heaped  up,  viper,  newspaper  obloquy 
which  had  always  free  pass  to  Longwood,  when 
bristling  bayonets  kept  at  bay  the  voices  which  the 
ear  of  its  captive  ached  to  hear ;  the  dreary,  com 
fortless  death-bed ;  the  last  faltering  request  denied ; 
as  if  malice  still  hungered  for  vengeance  when  the 
weary  heart  it  would  torture  had  lost  all  power  to 
feel.  Josephine!  Josephine!  thou  wert  indeed 
avenged ! 


"FIRST    PURE." 

I  WOULD  that  I  had  time  to  answer  the  many  kind 
letters  I  receive  from  my  unknown  friends,  or  power, 
as  they  seem  to  imagine,  to  reform  the  abuses  to 
which  they  call  my  attention.  The  subject  of  licen 
tiousness,  upon  which  I  have  just  received  a  letter, 
is  one  upon  which  I  have  thought  much  and  often 
since  my  residence  in  New  York.  I  could  not,  if  I 
would,  ignore  it,  when  at  every  step  its  victims  rus- 


80  FRESH    LEAVES. 

tie  past  me  in  the  gay  livery  of  shame,  or  stretch  out 
to  me,  from  beneath  tattered  garments,  the  hand, 
prematurely  old,  which  should,  alas !  wear  the 
golden  pledge  of  honorable  love.  But  they  tell  me 
this  is  a  subject  a  woman  can  not  understand,  and 
should  not  write  about.  Perhaps  so  ;  but  woman 
can  understand  it  when,  like  a  blighting  mildew,  it 
strips  bud,  blossom,  and  verdure,  from  her  house 
hold  olive-plants ;  woman  can  understand  it  when 
she  weeps  in  secret  over  the  wrong  which  she  may 
not  whisper  even  to  herself;  woman  can  understand 
it  when  the  children  of  the  man  whom  she  thought 
worthy  of  her  maidenly  love  and  honor,  sink  into 
early  graves,  under  the  inherited  taint  of  his  "youth 
ful  follies." 

And  yet  they  are  right  j  virtuous  woman  does  not 
understand  it ;  would  that  she  did — would  that  she 
sometimes  paused  to  think  of  her  share  of  blame  in 
this  matter  j  would  that  she  knew  how  much  her 
ready  smile,  and  indiscriminate  hand  of  welcome  has 
to  do  in  perpetuating  it  j  how  often  it  blunts  the 
sting  of  conscience,  and  confirms  the  immoral  man 
in  that  detestable  club-house  creed,  that  woman's 
virtue  depends  upon  opportunity.  Would  that 
mothers  would  sometimes  ask,  not — is  he  a  gentle 
man,  or  is  he  accomplished  ?  but,  is  he  moral  ?  is  he 
pure  ?  Pure  !  Young  New  York  holds  its  sides  in 
derision  at  the  word.  Pure  !  is  he  in  leading  strings  ? 
Pure !  it  is  a  contemptible  reflection  on  his  man- 


FIRST   PURE.  81 

hood  and  free  will.  Pure!  it  is  a  word  for  old 
women  and  priests. 

I  once  expressed  my  astonishment  to  a  lady,  that 
she  should  permit  the  calls  of  a  gentleman  whom  she 
knew  to  be  licentious.  "  That  is  none  of  my  busi 
ness,  you  know,  my  dear,"  she  replied,  "  so  long  as 
he  behaves  himself  properly  in  my  presence  ;"  and 
this  answer,  I  am  afraid,  would  be  endorsed  by  too 
many  of  my  readers.  As  well  might  she  have  said, 
that  it  was  none  of  her  business  that  her  neighbor's 
house  wajf  in  flames,  or  that  they  had  the  yellow 
fever  or  the  plague.  That  a  man  sings  well,  dresses 
well,  or  talks  well,  is,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  too  often 
sufficient  to  outweigh  his  moral  delinquency.  This 
is  poor  encouragement  to  young  men  who,  not  hav 
ing  yet  learned  to  think  lightly  of  the  sex  to  which 
their  mothers  and  sisters  belong,  are  old-fashioned 
enougli  to  wish  to  lead  virtuous  lives ;  and  some  of 
whom,  notwithstanding,  have  the  courage  and  man 
hood  in  these  degenerate  days  to  dare  to  do  it. 

As  to  a  reform  in  this  matter,  I  think  virtuous 
women  must  begin  it,  by  turning  the  cold  shoulder 
to  every  man  of  their  acquaintance  whom  they  know 
to  be  immoral,  and  I  think  a  woman  of  penetration 
will  not  be  at  fault,  if  she  takes  pains  to  sift  a  man's 
sentiments  in  conversation. 

Perhaps  you  will  tell  me  (though  I  hope  it  is  not 
so),  that  this  would  exclude  two  thirds  of  every  la 
dy's  gentlemen  acquaintance.  Be  it  so ;  better  for 
those  ladies,  better  for  their  daughters,  if  they  have 


82  FRESH    LEAVES. 

any,  better  for  the  cause  of  virtue  ;  at  least,  it  would 
not  take  long,  at  that  rate,  to  thin  the  ranks  of  vice. 
I  wonder  does  man  never  think,  in  his  better  mo 
ments,  how  much  nobler  it  were  to  protect  than  to 
debase  woman  ? — ay,  protect  her — if  need  be — even 
from  herself,  and  ignoring  the  selfish  creed  that  she 
has  a  right  to,  and  is  alone  responsible  for,  her  own 
self-disposal,  withdraw  her,  as  with  a  brother's  hand, 
from  the  precipice  over  which  misery  or  inclination 
would  plunge  her,  and  prove  to  the  "  weaker  sex" 
that  he  is  in  the  noblest  sense  the  stronger.  That, 
indeed,  were  God-like. 


HOLIDAY    THOUGHTS. 

WELL — New  Year's  and  Christinas  are  both  over  : 
there  is  a  lull  equal  to  that  after  a  Presidential  elec 
tion.  What  is  to  be  done  for  an  excitement  now  ? 
Every  body  is  yawning :  the  men  on  account  of  the 
number  of  complimentary  fibs  that  they  foolishly 
felt  themselves  called  upon  to  tell  the  ladies,  on  their 
New  Year's  calls ;  and  the  ladies,  because  they  were 
obliged  to  listen  as  if  they  did  not  know  them  all 
stereotyped,  to  be  repeated,  ad  infinitum,  at  every 
house  on  their  visiting  rounds;  the  matron,  because 
her  handsome  carpet  is  inch-deep  in  cake  crumbs ; 
and  her  husband,  because  bills  are  pouring  in  from 
butchers,  bakers,  grocers,  milkmen,  tailors,  dress- 


HOLIDAY    THOUGHTS.  83 

makers,  and  jewelers,  like  the  locusts  of  Egypt, 
Well — we  shall  not  say  any  thing  against  New 
Year's  and  its  jollities,  while  it  frees  the  poor  hack 
of  a  clerk,  and  gives  him  one  day  of  happiness  and 
rest ;  while  it  throws  over  the  indefatigable  cook's 
shoulders  the  cloak  for  which  she  has  been  vainly 
toiling  and  hoping ;  while  it  wings  the  feet  of  so 
many  bright- eyed  children,  and  lights  up  the  prim 
parlor  of  so  many  hopeless  old  maids.  We  shall 
not  say  any  thing  against  New  Year's,  when,  after 
long  months  of  wrong  and  estrangement,  it  stretches 
out  the  tardy  hand  of  repentance,  for  which  even 
the  Bible  bids  us  to  wait,  ere  we  forgive ;  we  shall 
not  say  any  thing  against  New  Year's,  though  it  re 
minds  us  that  hands  we  used  to  grasp  so  warmly, 
are  crossed  forever  over  pulseless  hearts;  though 
memories  sad,  but  sweet,  come  thronging  thick  and 
fast,  of  "  Happy  New  Years,"  from  lips  upon  which 
Death  has  set  his  final  seal.  And  yet  not  final ; 
thank  Him  who  giveth,  and  Him  who  taketh,  not 
final ;  for  even  here  we  trace  their  noiseless  foot 
steps — even  here  we  see  the  flitting  of  their  shad 
owy  garments — even  here  we  smile  in  dreams,  at 
the  overshadowing  wings  of  the  angels  who  "  have 
charge  to  keep  us."  No,  no — not  final:  our  love 
o'erleaps  the  dark  river,  to  greet  the  sister,  amid 
whose  orange  wreath  there  crept  the  cypress  vine  ; 
to  clasp  the  child,  who  quickened  our  heart-throbs 
ere  we  saw  the  lips  that  called  us  (alas,  for  so  brief 
a  space),  by  that  blessed  name — "Mother."  No, 


84  FRESH    LEAVES. 

no — not  final ; — else  were  this  fair  earth  to  us  a  sat 
isfying  birth-right ;  else  had  the  midnight  stars  no 
eyes  of  flame  to  search  the  guilty  conscience ;  else 
had  the  shimmer  of  the  moonbeam,  the  ripple  of 
the  wave,  the  crash  of  the  thunder,  the  flash  of  the 
lightning,  the  ceaseless  moan  of  the  vexed  sea,  no 
voice  to  waken  the  never-dying  echo  of  the  immor 
tal  in  our  nature.  No — Grod  be  praised — not  final ! 
But  we  had  not  intended  a  homily.  To  return 
to  the  observance  of  New  Year's  :  for  our  own  taste, 
we  should  prefer  the  sugar,  which  custom  so  lavish 
ly  heaps  upon  New  Year's  cake,  spread  more  spar 
ingly  upon  our  slices  of  "  daily  bread ;"  in  other 
words,  we  should  prefer  to  distribute  the  compress 
ed  courtesies  of  our  friends  on  this  day,  equally, 
through  the  weeks  and  months  of  the  year.  As  to 
the  absurd  custom  of  excluding  the  daylight,  to  re 
ceive  one's  visitors  by  the  glare  of  gas,  it  is  a  tacit 
admission  of  artificial  charms,  which  one  would 
think  even  "  fashion"  would  be  slow  to  make.  The 
inordinate  display  of  edibles  on  such  occasions, 
seems  to  us  as  useless  as  it  is  disgusting ;  a  cup  of 
coffee,  a  slice  of  cake,  or  a  sandwich,  being,  in  our 
humble  estimation,  sufficient  for  any  gentleman  who 
is  able  to  distinguish  between  a  private  house  and 
a  restaurant.  » 


A    HEADACHE.  85 


A  HEADACHE. 

Now  I  am  in  for  it,  with  one  of  my  unappeasable 
headaches.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  doctors ;  it  is  incur 
able  as  a  love-fit ;  nothing  on  earth  will  stop  it ;  you 
may  put  that  down  in  your  memorandum-book. 
Now,  I  suppose  every  body  in  the  house  to-day  will 
put  on  their  creakingest  shoes  j  and  every  body 
will  go  up  and  down  stairs  humming  all  the  tunes 
they  ever  heard,  especially  those  I  most  dislike ; 
and  I  suppose  every  thing  that  is  cooked  in  the 
kitchen  will  boil  and  stew  over,  and  the  odor  will 
come  up  to  me ;  and  I  have  such  a  nose !  And  I 
suppose  all  the  little  boys  in  the  neighborhood,  bless 
their  little  restless  souls,  will  play  duets  on  tin-pans 
and  tin-kettles  ;  and  I  suppose  every  body  who 
comes  into  my  room  to  ask  me  how  I  do,  will 
squeak  that  horrid  door,  and  keep  squeaking  it ;  and 
I  suppose  that  unhappy  dog  confined  over  in  that 
four-square-feet  yard,  will  howl  more  deliriously 
than  ever ;  and  Mr.  Jones's  obnoxious  blind  will 
flap  and  bang  till  I  am  as  crazy  as  an  omnibus- 
driver  who  has  a  baulky  horse,  and  whose  passen 
gers  are  hopping  out  behind  without  paying  their 
fare ;  and  1^  suppose  some  poor  little  child  will  be 
running  under  the  window  every  now  and  then, 
screaming  "  Mother,"  and  whenever  I  hear  that,  I 
think  somebody  wants  me;  and  I've  no  doubt  there 
will  be  "  proof"  to  read  to-day,  and  that  that  per- 
8 


86  FRESH    LEAVES. 

tinacious  and  stentorian  rag-man  will  lumber  past  on 
his  crazy  old  cart,  and  insist  on  having  some  of  my 
dry  goods ;  and  I  feel  it  in  my  bones  that  oysters 
and  oranges,  and  tape,  and  blacking,  and  brooms, 
and  mats,  and  tin- ware,  will  settle  and  congregate 
on  this  side-walk,  and  assert  their  respective  claims 
to  my  notice,  till  the  sight  of  an  undertaker  would 
be  a  positive  blessing. 

Whack  !  how  my  head  snaps !  Don't  tell  me  any 
living  woman  ever  had  such  a  headache  before — 
because  it  will  fill  me  with  disgust.  What  o'clock 
is  it?  "Twelve."  Merciful  man!  only  twelve 
o'clock  !  I  thought  it  was  five.  How  am  I  to  get 
through  the  day,  I  would  like  to  know,  for  tliis 
headache  won't  let  up  till  sundown ;  it  never  does. 
"  Read  to  me."  What  '11  you  read  ?  "  Tom  Moore  1" 
as  if  I  were  not  sick  enough  already !  Moore ! 
with  his  nightingales,  and  bulbuls,  and  jessamines; 
and  loves  and  doves,  and  roses  and  poesies — till 
the  introduction  of  an  uneducated  wildcat,  or  the 
tearingest  kind  of  a  hyena  in  his  everlasting  gardens, 
would  be  an  untold  relief.  No — I  hate  Moore. 
Beside — he  is  the  fellow  who  said,  (>  When  away 
from  the  lips  that  we  love,  we  '11  make  love  to  the 
lips  that  are  near."  No  wonder  he  was  baptized 
more — carnivorous  old  profligate. 

"Will  I  have  a  cup  of  tea?"  No;  of  course  I 
won't.  I  'm  not  an  old  maid.  Tea !  I  'd  like  a  dose 
of  strychnine.  There  goes  my  head  again — I  should 
think  a  string  of  fire-crackers  was  fastened  to  each 


HAS  A  MOTHER  A  BIGHT  TO  HES  CHILDREN  ?       87 

hair.  Now  the  pain  is  in  my  left  temple  ;  now  it  is 
in  my  eyeballs;  now — oh  dear — it  is  everywhere. 
Sit  down  beside  me,  on  the  bed — don't  jar  it ;  now 
put  your  cold  hand  on  my  forehead — so — good  gra 
cious  !  There  's  a  hand-organ  !  I  knew  it — the 
very  one  I  moved  here  to  get  rid  of.  Playing 
the  same  old  tune,  too,  composed  of  three  notes : 
"  tweedle — dum — tweedle — dee !" 

Now  if  that  organ-man  would  pull  each  of  my 
finger  and  toe-nails  out  by  the  roots,  one  by  one,  I 
wouldn't  object,  but  that  everlasting  " tweedle — " 
oh  dear  ! — Or  if  a  cat's  tail  were  to  be  irretrievably 
shut  into  yonder  door — or  a  shirt-sleeve  should  be 
suddenly  and  unexpectedly  thrown  around  an  old 
maid's  neck  in  this  room,  any  tiling — every  thing  but 
that  eternal,  die-away  "tweedle."  What's  the  use 
of  a  city  government?  What  is  the  use  of  any 
thing  ?  What  is  the  use  of  me  ? 


HAS  A  MOTHER  A  RIGHT  TO  HER 
CHILDREN? 

MOST  unquestionably,  law  or  no  law.  Let  us  be 
gin  at  the  beginning.  Let  us  take  into  considera 
tion  the  physical  prostration  of  mind  and  body  en 
dured  by  mothers  antecedent  to  the  birth  of  their 
offspring;  their  extreme  nervousness  and  restless- 
•jiess,  without  the  ability  for  locomotion ;  the  great 


88  FRESH    LEAVES. 

nameless  horror  which  hangs  over  those  who,  for 
the  first  time,  are  called  upon  to  endure  agonies  that 
no  man  living  would  have  fortitude  to  bear  more 
than  once,  even  at  their  shortest  period  of  duration ; 
and  which,  to  those  who  have  passed  through  it,  is 
intensified  by  the  vivid  recollection  (the  only  verse 
in  the  Bible  which  I  call  in  question  being  this — 
"  She  rernembereth  no  more  her  pains,  for  joy  that 
a  man-child  is  born  into  the  world").  Granted  that 
the  mother's  life  is  spared  through  this  terrible  or 
deal,  she  rises  from  her  sick-bed,  after  weeks  of 
prostration,  with  the  precious  burden  in  her  arms 
which  she  carried  so  long  and  so  patiently  beneath 
her  heart.  Oh,  the  continuous,  tireless  watching 
necessary  to  preserve  the  life  and  limbs  of  this  fra 
gile  little  thing  I  At  a  time,  too,  of  all  times,  when 
the  mother  most  needs  relaxation  and  repose.  It  is 
known  only  to  those  who  have  passed  through  it. 
Its  reward  is  with  Him  who  seeth  in  secret. 

I  speak  now  only  of  good  mothers  ;  mothers  who 
deserve  the  high  and  holy  name.  Mothers  who  in 
their  unselfish  devotion  look  not  at  their  capacity  to 
endure,  but  the  duties  allotted  to  them  (would  that 
husbands  and  fathers  did  not  so  often  leave  it  to  the 
tombstone  to  call  their  attention  to  the  former). 
Mothers,  whose  fragile  hands  keep  the  domestic 
treadmill  in  as  unerring  motion  as  if  no  new  care 
was  superadded  in  the  feeble  wail  of  the  new-born 
infant.  Mothers  whose  work  is  literally  never  done ; 
who  sleep  with  one  eye  open,  intrusting  to  no  careless 


THE    SABBATH    A    DELIGHT.  80 

hireling  the  precious  little  life.  Mothers  who  am 
scarce  secure  to  themselves  five  minutes  of  the 
morning  hours  free  from  interruption,  to  ask  God's 
help  that  a  feeble,  tried  woman  may  hold  evenly  the 
scales  of  domestic  justice  amid  the  conflicting  ele 
ments  of  human  needs  and  human  frailties.  Now 
I  ask  you — shall  any  human  law,  for  any  conceivable 
reason,  wrest  the  child  of  such  a  mother  from  her 
frenzied  clasp  ? 

Shall  any  human  law  give  into  a  man's  hand, 
though  that  man  be  the  child's  own  father,  the  sole 
right  to  its  direction  and  disposal  ?  Has  not  she, 
who  suffered,  martyr-like,  these  crucifying  pains — 
these  wearisome  days  and  sleepless  nights,  earned 
this  her  sweet  reward  ? 

Shall  any  virtuous  woman,  who  is  in  the  full  pos 
session  of  her  mental  faculties,  how  poor  soever  she 
may  be,  be  beggared  by  robbing  her  of  that  which 
has  been,  and,  thank  God !  will  be  the  salvation  of 
many  a  down- trodden  wife  ? 


"  AND  YE  SHALL  CALL  THE  SABBATH  A 
DELIGHT." 

I  LIKE  to  throw  open  the  windows  of  my  soul  on 
Sabbath  morning — air  it  of  the  week's  fret,  and 
toil,  and  care — and  beckon  in  the  white-winged 
dove  of  Peace  to  sing  me  a  song  of  heaven.  I  like 
to  go  to  church ;  it  is  to  me  like  turning  from  the 
8* 


90  FRESH    LEAVES. 

dusty  highway  of  life  into  green  fields,  and;  under 
the  friendly  shade  of  some  sheltering  tree,  gazing, 
through  its  leafy  canopy,  into  the  serene  blue  depths 
above.  The  holy  hymn  soothes  me  like  a  mother's 
lullaby  to  her  weary  child.  I  care  not  to  read  the 
words  of  the  book  which  custom  places  in  my 
hands.  I  would  listen,  with  closed  eyes,  while  my 
soul  syllables  its  own  secret  burden ;  floating  away 
on  that  melody  to  Him  who  has  given  us  this 
blessed  day  of  rest ;  and  as  the  last  note  dies  away, 
I  would  cross  the  sacred  threshold,  hugging  to  my 
heart  this  holy  peace ;  nor  stay  to  listen  to  the  cold, 
theoretical,  charnel-house  sermons  to  which,  Sunday 
after  Sunday — vary  the  church  as  I  may — I  feel 
myself,  unless  I  do  this,  a  disappointed,  disheart 
ened,  and  wearied  listener.  No  earnestness,  no  life, 
no  soul;  long,  dry,  windy,  wordy  skeleton-dis 
courses  j  tame  platitudes,  disgusting  rant,  a  school 
boy's  parrot-lesson,  injudicious  depreciation  of  a 
world  which  is  sweet  to  live  in,  and  fair  to  see ;  in 
judicious  denunciation  of  innocent,  youthful  pleas 
ures — proper  and  healthful  for  life's  young  spring 
time  ;  an  ascetic  rendering  of  that  Blessed  Book 
which  is,  has  been,  and  will  be,  the  soul's  life-boat, 
spite  of  its  listless  and  blundering  clerical  expositors 
— many  of  whom  offer  us 'a  Procrustean  bed  of  the 
ology,  too  short  for  any  healthy  creature  of  Gro.d  to 
stretch  himself  upon.  Who  can  wonder  at  the  re 
bound  ?  Who  can  wonder  that  our  young  people 
pass  by  the  church-door,  or  cross  its  threshold  com- 


THE    SABBATH    A    DELIGHT.  91 

pulsorily  ?  or  that  their  decorous  seniors  enter  it 
but  to  sleep  ? 

A  few  Sabbaths  since  I  chanced  into  a  church 
where  a  hundred  and  fifty  children  were  assembled 
for  the  afternoon  service,  to  be  addressed  as  Sun 
day-school  scholars.  The  out-door  air  was  a  lux 
ury  to  breathe— it  was  one  of  those  lovely  spring 
days,  which  woo  every  living  thing  to  bask  in  the 
warm  sunshine.  These  children,  many  of  them 
under  four,  none  over  fifteen,  perspiring  in  their  out 
door  clothing,  were  closely  packed  in  those  high- 
backed,  uncomfortable  seats — their  cheeks  at  fever 
heat,  and  every  pore  in  their  crucified  bodies  cry 
ing  out  for  ventilation  and  common  sense — neither 
of  which  they  had  for  a  mortal  hour-and-a-half,  to 
speak  within  bounds.  In  vain  did  teachers  frown, 
and  nudge,  and  poke — in  vain  did  the  well-meaning 
but  stupidest  of  possible  ministers  pound  the  pulpit 
cushions,  to  impress  upon  their  memories,  by  gestic 
ulation,  his  long-winded  sentences ;  they  were  all 
written — as  they  deserved  to  be — in  water.  Flesh 
and  blood  could  n't  stand  it — least  of  all  that  most 
unperverted,  critical,  and  discerning  of  audiences — 
childhood  / 

That  preacher,  in  my  opinion  (and  I  ached  to  tell 
him  so),  did  more  harm  in  that  hour  and  a  half  than 
he  can  remedy  in  a  life-time.  This  may  seem  a 
bold  assertion.  /  think  not.  One  hundred  and  fifty 
little  children  to  carry  away  with  them  from  that 
church  (not  only  for  that  afternoon,  but  for  a  long 


92  FRESH    LEAVES. 

life  of  Sundays),  a  disgust  of  that  blessed  day,  and 
what  should  be  its  sweet  and  holy  services.  But 
what  is  the  use  of  talking  ?  Every  great  and  good 
cause  is  sure  to  be  knocked  in  the  head  by  some 
blunderbuss.  Why  did  n't  that  man  tell  those  chil 
dren  some  short,  simple  story  that  the  youngest 
child  there  could  understand,  appreciate,  and  be  in 
terested  in  ?  Why  did  n't  he  open  wide  the  church- 
doors  before  their  attention  and  interest  flagged? 
Why  so  enamored  of  the  sound  of  his  own  voice, 
as  to  keep  those  steaming,  par-boiled  little  victims 
in  that  sacerdotal  vapor-bath,  after  he  had  said  all 
he  could  think  of  to  them,  to  address  their  teachers, 
who,  if  necessary,  should  have  had  a  meeting  by 
themselves  for  that  infliction  ?  And  why — (I  ask 
all  of  you  who  have  not  forgotten  how  your  rest 
less  limbs  ached  when  you  were  children) — must 
another  minister  get  up  after  that,  and  torture  com 
mon-sense,  and  his  fainting,  frying  auditors,  by 
another  aimless,  inflated,  meaningless,  and  last-drop- 
in-the-bucket,  but  (thanks  to  a  kind  Providence), 
final  address?  And  why  didn't  somebody  seize 
the  sexton  of  that  church,  who  had  compelled  a 
hundred  and  fifty  children  to  breathe  the  foul  air 
which  the  morning  worshipers  had  bequeathed,  and 
which  he  was  too  lazy  to  let  out  the  windows — why 
did  n't  somebody,  I  say,  seize  that  sexton,  and  place 
him  in  an  exhausted  receiver,  long  enough  to  give 
him  some  faint  notion  of  what  he  made  those  par 
boiled  children  suffer  in  that  "protracted  meeting?" 


"COME  ON,  MACDUFF."  93 


"COME    ON,   MACDUFF." 

A  COREESPONDENT  wishes  us  to  "  oblige  a  lady,11  by  publishing 
a  communication  containing  strictures  on  Fanny  Fern.  But, 
why  should  we  "oblige  a  lady"  whom  we  do  not  know,  and  at 
the  same  time  disoblige  a  lady  whom  all  the  world  knows  ? — 
Kew  York  Evening  Mirror. 

"  Oblige  a  lady."  She  is  not  the  first,  or  the  only 
lady,  who  has  tried  to  be  "  obliged/'  and  obliging, 
in  this  way.  Dear  creatures !  how  they  love  me  1 
There  was  Miss  Moses,  proper  Miss  Moses,  who  had 
been  for  a  year  or  more  writing  for  the  Scribetown 
Gazette,  when  I  commenced.  How  delighted  she 
was  at  my  advent — how  pleased  she  was  with  my 
articles — how  many  things  she  said  about  me,  per 
sonally  and  literarily,  to  the  editor  of  the  Gazette — 
what  an  interest  she  took  in  my  progress.  She 
never  tried  to  keep  my  articles  out  of  the  paper, 
(benevolent  soul!)  "lest  they  should  injure  its  repu 
tation" — not  she ;  ^  she  never,  when  looking  over 
the  exchanges,  hid  away  those  in  which  my  articles 
were  copied,  and  commended — not  she  ,  she  never, 
when  she  found  one  containing  a  personal  attack  on 
me  (written  at  her  own  suggestion),  marked  it  with 
a  double  row  of  ink  marks,  and  laid  it  in  a  conspic 
uous  place  on  the  editor's  table — not  she.  She  liked 
my  articles — liked  them  so  well,  that,  on  several 
occasions,  she  appropriated  whole  sentences  and 


94  FRESH  LEAVES. 

paragraphs;  omitting  (probably  through  forgetful- 
ness),  to  make  the  necessary  quotation  marks! 
Dove-like  Miss  Moses !  I  think  I  see  her  now  look 
ing  as  though  she  was  going  to  be  translated  (which 
by  the  way,  her  works  never  have  been.)  Pious  Miss 
Moses,  who  rang  threadbare  changes  on  the  ten 
commandments,  and  was  addicted  to  meetings  and 
melancholy;  she  tried  hard  to  extinguish  me,  but 
success  makes  one  magnanimous.  I  forgive  her. 

And  there  was  Miss  Fox,  who  "  never  could  see 
any  thing  to  like  in  Fanny  Fern's  articles,"  who 
knew  her  to  have  come  from  a  family,  "who  always 
fizzled  out" — (on  this  point  this  deponent  saith  noth 
ing) — but  who,  when  she  (Miss  Fox)  had  occasion 
to  write  a  newspaper  story,  got  some  kind  friend  to 
say  in  print,  "  that  the  story  by  Rosa,  was  probably 
written  by  Fanny  Fern."  Sweet  Miss  Fox  ! 

Then  there  was  Miss  Briar,  who  "wondered  if 
Mr.  Bonner,  of  the  New  York  Ledger,  gave  Fanny 
Fern,  who  had  never  been  out  of  sight  of  America, 
$100  a  column  for  her  stupid  trash,  what  he  would 
give  her,  Miss  Briar,  who  had  crossed  the  big  pond, 
when  she  touched  pen  to  paper !  Fanny  Fern,  in 
deed  !  Humph  I" 

Lovely  creatures !  I  adore  the  whole  sex.  I  al 
ways  prefer  hotels,  ferry  boats,  and  omnibusses, 
where  they  predominate,  and  abound ;  how  court 
eous  they  are  to  each  other,  in  case  of  a  squeeze  I 
Lord  bless  'em !  How  truly  Burns  says  : 


LOOK    ALOFT.  95 

* 

*«*        ~  •*$• 
•'  Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 

Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  O  : 
Her  "prentice  han"  she  tried  on  man, 
And  then  she  made  the  lasses,  O. 
The  sweetest  Ji-ours  that  e'er  I  spend 
Are  spmt  amang  the  lasses,  0." 


LOOK    ALOFT. 

You  are  "discouraged!"  You?  with  strong 
limbs,  good  health,  the  green  earth  beneath  your 
feet,  and  the  broad  blue  sky  above  ?  "  Discour 
aged  ?"  and  why  ?  You  are  poor,  unknown,  friend 
less,  obscure,  unrecognized,  and  alone  in  this  great 
swarming  metropolis  ;  the  rich  man  suffocates  you 
with  the  dust  of  his  pretentious  chariot  wheels. 

As  you  are  now,  so  once  was  he.  Did  he  waste 
time  whining  about  it  ?  No,  by  the  rood !  or  he 
would  not  now  be  President  of  the  Bank  before 
which  he  once  sold  beer  at  a  penny  a  glass,  to 
thirsty  cabmen  and  newsboys.  For  shame,  man ! 
get  up  and  shake  yourself,  if  you  are  not  afraid  such 
a  mass  of  inanity  will  fall  to  pieces.  Cock  your  hat 
on  your  head,  torn  rim  and  all;  elbow  your  way 
through  the  crowd;  if  they  don't  move  for  you, 
make  them  do  it ;  push  past  them ;  you  have  as 
much  right  in  the  World  as  your  neighbor.  If  you 
wait  for  him  to  take  you  by  the  hand,  the  grass  will 
grow  over  your  grave.  Rush  past  him  and  get 
employment.  "  You  have  tried,  and  failed."  So 


96  FRESH    LEAVES. 

have  thousands  before  you,  who,  to-day,  are  pecu 
niarily  independent.  I  have  the  most  unqualified 
disgust  of  a  man  who  folds  his  hands  at  every  ob 
stacle,  instead  of  leaping  over  it ;  or  who  dare  not 
do  any  thing  under  heaven,  unless  it  be  to  blaspheme 
God,  wrong  his  neighbor,  or  dishonor  woman. 

I  tell  you,  if  you  are  determined,  you  can  get  em 
ployment  ;  but  you  won't  get  it  by  cringing  round 
the  doors  of  rich  relations  ;  you  won't  get  it  if  you 
can't  dine  on  a  crust,  month  after  month,  and  year 
after  year,  if  need  be,  with  hope  for  a  dessert ;  you 
won't  get  it  if  you  stand  with  your  lazy  hands  in 
your  pockets,  listening  to  croakers ;  you  won't  do  it 
if  you  don't  raise  your  head  above  every  billow  of 
discouragement  which  dashes  over  you,  and  halloo 
to  Fate,  with  a  stout  heart :  "  Try  again,  old  fellow  !" 
No — and  it  is  not  right  you  should — you  are  good 
for  nothing  but  to  go  sniveling  through  the  world, 
making  wry  faces  at  the  good  fortune  of  other 
people.  Bah !  I'm  disgusted  with  you. 

You  despair.  Why  ?  "  You  are  a  widow."  Of 
how  much  sorrow  is  that  little  word  the  voice? 
Oh !  I  know,  poor  mourner,  how  dark  earth  looks 
to  you.  I  know  that  sun  and  stars  mock  you  with 
their  brightness.  I  know  that  you  shut  out  the 
placid  moonbeams,  and  pray  to  die.  Listen!  Are 
there  no  bleeding  hearts  but  yours?  Your  dead 
sleep  peacefully;  their  tears  are  all  shed;  their 
sighs  all  heaved;  their  weary  hands  folded  over 


LOOK    ALOFT.  97 

quiet  hearts;  but  oh,  repiner!  the  living  sorrows 
that  are  masked  beneath  the  smiling  faces  you  envy ! 
the  corroding  bitterness  of  a  dishonored  hearth 
stone;  the  mantle  all  too  narrow,  all  too  scant,  to 
hide  from  prying,  malignant  eyes,  the  torturing  se 
cret  ! — bone  of  your  bone,  flesh  of  your  flesh,  and 
yet,  stranger  to  you  than  the  savage  of  the  desert — 
colder  to  you  than  the  dead  for  whom  you  so  repin- 
ingly  grieve.  Ah!  are  there  no  bleeding  hearts 
save  yours?  Is  the  "last  vial"  emptied  on  your 
shrinking  head  ? 

But  your  little  children  stand  looking  into  your 
tear-stained  face,  imploring  you  for  bread — bread 
that  you  know  not  where  to  procure;  your  ear 
aches  for  the  kind  words  which  never  come  to  you. 
Oh,  where  is  your  faith  in  Grod  ?  Who  says  to  you 
in  accents  sweeter  than  ever  fell  from  human  lips: 
"A  bruised  reed  will  I  not  break;"  "Let  your 
widows  trust  in  me."  No  kind  words?  Is  it 
nothing,  that  those  musical  little  voices  call  you 
"mother?"  Is  the  clasp  of  those  soft  arms,  the 
touch  of  those  velvet  lips,  nothing  ?  Is  it  thus  you 
teach  them  to  put  their  little  hands  into  that  of  the 
Almighty  Father,  and  say,  "  Give  us  this  day  our 
daily  bread  ?"  Oh,  get  on  your  knees  before  those 
sweet  little  teachers,  who  know  no  danger — no 
harm,  who  fear  no  evil  while  "  mother"  is  near,  and 
learn  of  them  to  watch,  and  hope,  and  trust ;  for  sure 
as  the  sun  shines  above  your  and  their  heads,  so  sure 
is  His  promise  to  those  who  believingly  claim  it 
9 


98  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"Lonely,"  are  you?  Oh,  above  all  loneliness  is 
his,  who,  having  thrown  away  his  faith  in  G-od,  and 
bereft  of  earthly  idols,  stands  like  some  lightning- 
reft  tree,  blossomless,  verdureless,  scathed,  and 
blasted ! 


KNICKERBOCKER     AND    TRI-MOUNTAIN. 

THE  New  York  woman  doteth  on  rainbow  hats 
and  dresses,  confectionery,  the  theater,  the  opera, 
and  flirtation.  She  stare th  gentlemen  in  the  street 
out  of  countenance,  in  a  way  that  puzzleth  a  stran 
ger  to  decide  the  question  of  her  respectability.  The 
New  York  woman  thinketh  it  well-bred  to  criticise 
in  an  audible  tone  the  dress  and  appearance  of  every 
chance  lady  near  her,  in  the  street,  shop,  ferry-boat, 
car,  or  omnibus.  If  doubtful  of  the  material  of 
which  her  dress  is  composed,  she  draweth  near,  ex- 
amineth  it  microscopically,  and  pronounceth  it — 
"after  all — silk."  The  New  York  woman  never 
appeareth  without  a  dress-hat  and  flounces,  though 
the  time  be  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  her 
destination  the  grocer's,  to  order  some  superfine  tea. 
She  delighteth  in  embroidered  petticoats,  which  she 
liberally  displayeth  to  curious  bipeds  of  the  opposite 
sex.  She  turneth  up  her  nose  at  a  delaine,  wipeth 
up  the  pavement  with  a  thousand-dollar  silk,  and 
believeth  point-lace  collars  and  handkerchiefs  essen 
tial  to  salvation.  She  scorneth  to  ride  in  an  omni- 


KNICKERBOCKER    AND    TRI-MOUNTAIN.  99 

bus,  and  if  driven  by  an  impertinent  shower  therein, 
sniffeth  up  her  aristocratic  nose  at  the  plebeian  oc 
cupants,  pulleth  out  her  costly  gold  watch  to — ascer 
tain  the  time  !  and  draweth  off  her  gloves  to  show 
her  diamonds.  Arrived  at  Snob  avenue,  she  shak- 
eth  off  the  dust  of  her  silken  flounces  against  her 
fellow-travelers,  trippeth  up  her  aristocratic  steps, 
and  holding  up  her  dress  sufficiently  high  to  display 
to  the  retreating  passengers  her  silken  .hose,  and 
dainty  boot,  resigneth  her  parasolette  to  black  John, 
and  maketh  her  triumphant  exit. 

At  the  opera,  the  New  York  woman  taketh  the 
most  conspicuous  box,  spreadeth  out  her  flounces  to 
their  fullest  circumference,  and  betrayeth  a  constant 
and  vulgar  consciousness  that  she  is  in  her  go-to- 
meetin'-fixins,  by  arranging  her  bracelets  and  shawl, 
settling  her  rings,  and  fiddling  at  her  coiffure,  and 
the  lace  kerchief  on  her  neck.  She  also  talketh  in 
cessantly  during  the  opera,  to  show  that  she  is  not 
a  novice  to  be  amused  by  it ;  and  leaveth  with  much 
bustle,  just  before  the  last  act,  for  the  same  reason, 
and  also  to  display  her  toilette. 

On  Sunday  morning,  the  New  York  woman  tak 
eth  all  the  jewelry  she  can  collect,  and  in  her  flash 
iest  silk  and  bonnet,  taketh  her  velvet-bound, 
gilt-clasped  prayer-book  out  for  an  airing.  Arrived 
at  Dives'  church,  she  straightway  kneeleth  and  bow- 
eth  her  head ;  not,  as  the  uninitiated  may  suppose,  to 
pray,  but  privately  to  arrange  her  curls ;  this  done, 
and  raising  her  head,  she  sayeth.  "  we  beseech  thee 


100  FRESH    LEAVES. 

to  hear  us,  good  Lord  1"  while  she  taketh  a  minute 
inventory  of  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Peters's  Parisian  toi 
lette.  After  church,  she  taketh  a  turn  or  two  in 
Fifth  Avenue,  to  display  her  elaborate  dress,  and  to 
wonder  "why  vulgar  people  don't  confine  them 
selves  to  the  Bowery." 


THE    BOSTON    WOMAN. 

TIIE  Boston  woman  draweth  down  her  mouth, 
rolleth  up  her  eyes,  foldeth  her  hands,  and  walketh 
on  a  crack.  She  rejoiceth  in  anatomical  and  chemi 
cal  lectures.  She  prateth  of  Macaulay  and  Carlyle  ; 
belongeth  to  many  and  divers  reading-classes,  and 
smileth  in  a  chaste,  moonlight  kind  of  way  on  lite 
rary  men.  She  dresseth  (to  her  praise  be  it  spoken) 
plainly  in  the  street,  and  considereth  india-rubbers 
a  straw  bonnet,  and  a  thick  shawl,  the  fittest  cos 
tume  for  damp  and  cloudy  weather.  She  dresseth 
her  children  more  for  comfort  than  show,  and  bring- 
eth  them  up  also  to  walk  on  a  crack.  She  maketh 
the  tour  of  the  Common  twice  or  three  times  a  day, 
without  regard  to  the  barometer.  She  goeth  to 
church  twice  or  three  times  on  Sunday,  sandwiched 
with  Bible-classes  and  Sabbath-schools.  She  think- 
eth  London,  Vienna,  or  Paris — fools  to  Boston ;  and 
the  "  Boulevards"  and  "  Tuilleries"  not  to  be  men 
tioned  with  the  Frog  Pond  and  the  Common.  She 


THE    NEW   YORK    MALE.  101 

is  well  posted  up  as  to  po&tipSf-rthinketh  "as  Pa 
does,"  and  sticketh  to  it  thr,oug/\  thunder  and'  light 
ning.  When  asked  tr/tako^a  gentbma.a's  &rE^  she 
hooketh  the  tip  of-  her;Ji;;tVfi]igsr  Gircdii^pectly  -oh 
to  his  male  coat-  sleeve;  She  is  u,s  prim  as  a  bolster, 
as  stiff  as  a  ram-rqd,  (is  frigid  «s  au>ii;?k:l£,raijd  not 
even  matrimony  with  a?  New  Yorker  eouid  ihaw  her. 


THE    NEW    YORK    MALE. 

THE  New  York  male  exulteth  in  fast  horses,  styl 
ish  women,  long-legged  hounds,  a  coat-of-arms,  and 
liveried  servants.  Beside,  or  behind  him,  may  be 
seen  his  servant,  with  folded  arms  and  white  gloves, 
driven  out  daily  by  his  master,  to  inhale  the  gutter 
breezes  of  Broadway,  to  excite  the  wonder  of  the 
curious,  and  to  curl  the  lips  of  republicanism.  The 
New  York  male  hath  many  and  divers  garments ; 
some  of  which  he  weareth  bob-tailed ;  some  shang 
hai,  some  with  velvet  collars,  some  with  silk ;  anon 
turned  up  ;  anon  turned  down ;  and  some  carelessly 
a-la-flap.  The  New  York  male  breakfasteth  late, 
owing  to  pressing  engagements  which  keep  him 
abroad  after  midnight.  About  twelve  the  next 
morning  he  lighteth  a  cigar  to  assist  his  blear-eyes 
to  find  the  way  down-town ;  and  with  his  hands  in 
his  pockets,  and  arms  akimbo,  he  navigateth  tor 
tuously  around  locomotive  "  hoops  ;" — indefatiga- 


102  FRESH    LEAVES. 

bly  r/cTsueth'  a  -bonnet  fcr  several  blocks,  to  get  a 
peep  j*t  its  owner ;  '"nor  getteth  discouraged  at  inter 
vening  parasols,  or  impromptu  shopping  errands; 
no?  thimieihv~hi&  tkn»  fie 'ssi-oH-feaiiher  wasted.  The 
New  York  male  beloirgelh  'to  the  most  ruinous  club 
and  military.;,  Company1  j  'is  ft  connoisseur  in  gold 
sleeve-button's,  and  seal-rings,  and  diamond  studs. 
He  cometh  into  the  world  with  an  eye-glass  and 
black  ribbon  winked  into  his  left  eye,  and  prideth 
himself  upon  having  broken  all  the  commandments 
before  he  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  coat-tails. 


THE    BOSTON    MALE. 

THE  Boston  male  is  respectable  all  over ;  from  the 
crown  of  his  glossy  hat  to  the  soles  of  his  shiny 
shoes  j  and  huggeth  his  mantle  of  self-esteem  insep 
arably  about  him,  that  he  may  avoid  contaminating 
contact  with  the  non-elect  of  his  "  set."  The  Bos 
ton  male  is  for  the  most  part  good-looking ;  and  a 
stanch  devotee  of  starch  and  buckram ;  he  patroniz- 
eth  jewelry  but  sparingly,  and  never  discerneth  a 
diamond  in  the  rough.  If,  as  Goethe  sayeth,  "  the 
unconscious  is  the  alone  complete,"  then  is  the  male 
Bostonian  yet  in  embryo.  He  takcth,  and  readeth 
all  the  newspapers  and  magazines,  foreign  and  do 
mestic  ;  and  yet,  strange  to  say,  sweareth  by  the 
little  tea-table  "  Transcript."  When  the  Boston 


MY    OLD    INK-STAND    AND    I.  103 

male  traveleth  he  weareth  his  best  clothes ;  arrived 
at  his  destination  he  putteth  up  at  the  most  showy 
hotel,  ordereth  the  most  expensive  rooms  and  ed 
ibles,  and  maketh  an  unwonted  "splurge"  generally. 
He  then  droppeth  the  proprieties — pro  tern. — being 
seized  with  an  anatomical  desire  to  dissect  the  great 
sores  of  the  city ;  fancying,  like  the  ostrich,  that  if 
his  head  only  be  hidden,  he  is  undiscernible. 

The  Boston  male  is  conservative  as  a  citizen, 
prosaic  as  a  lover;  hum-drum  as  a  husband,  and 
hath  no  sins — to  speak  of! 


MY  OLD  INK-STAND  AND  I; 

OR,     THE   FIRST    ARTICLE    IN     THE    NEW    HOUSE. 

WELL,  old  Ink-stand,  what  do  you  thing  of  this  ? 
Have  n't  we  got  well  through  the  woods,  hey  ?  A 
few  scratches  and  bruises  we  have  had,  to  be  sure, 
but  what  of  that  ?  Did  n't  you  whisper  where  we 
should  come  out,  the  first  morning  I  dipped  my 
pen  in  your  sable  depths,  in  the  sky-parlor  of  that 
hyena-like  Mrs.  Griffin  ?  With  what  an  eagle 
glance  she  discovered  that  my  bonnet-ribbon  was 
undeniably  guilty  of  two  distinct  washings,  and, 
emboldened  by  my  shilling  de  laine,  and  the  shabby 
shoes  of  little  Nell,  inquired  "  if  I  intended  taking 
in  slop-work  into  her  apartments  ?"  How  distinctly 
I  was  made  to  understand  that  Nell  was  not  to 


104  FRESH    LEAVES. 

speak  above  a  whisper,  or  in  any  way  infringe  upon 
the  rights  of  her  uncombed,  unwashed,  unbaptized, 
uncomfortable  little  Griffins.  Poor  little  Nell,  who 
clung  to  my  gown  with  childhood's  instinctive  ap 
preciation  of  the  hard  face  and  wiry  voice  of  our 
jailor.  With  what  venom  I  overheard  her  inform 
Mr.  Griffin  that  "  they  must  look  sharp  for  the  rent 
of  their  sky-parlor,  as  its  tenant  lived  on  bread  and 
milk,  and  wore  her  under-clothes  rough-dry,  be 
cause  she  could  not  afford  to  pay  for  ironing  them!" 
Do  you  remember  that,  old  Ink-stand  ?  And  do 
you  remember  the  morning  she  informed  me,  as 
you  and  I  were  busily  engaged  in  out  first  article, 
that  I  must  "  come  and  scrub  the  stairs  which  led 
up  to  my  room  ;"  and  when  I  ventured  humbly  to 
mention,  that  this  was  not  spoken  of  in  our  agree 
ment,  do  you  remember  the  Siddons-like  air  with 
which  she  thundered  in  our  astonished  ears — "  Do 
it,  or  tramp  1"  And  do  you  remember  how  you 
vowed  "if  I  did  tramp,"  you  would  stand  by  me, 
and  help  me  out  of  the  scrape  ?  and  have  n't  you 
done  it,  old  Ink-stand?  And  don't  you  wish  old 
Griffin,  and  all  the  little  Griffins,  and  their  likes, 
both  big  and  little,  here  and  elsewhere,  could  see 
this  bran-new  house  that  you  have  helped  me  into, 
and  the  dainty  little  table  upon  which  I  have  in 
stalled  you,  untempted  by  any  new  papier-mache 
modern  marvel  ? 

Turn  my  back  on  you,  old  Ink-stand !     Not  I. 
Throw  you  aside,  for  your  shabby  exterior,  as  wo 


MY    OLD    INK-STAND    AND    I.  105 

were  thrown  aside,  when  it  was  like  drawing  teeth 
to  get  a  solitary  shilling  to  buy  you  at  a  second 
hand  shop  ?  Perish  the  thought ! 

Yes,  old  Ink-stand,  Griffin  and  all  that  crew, 
should  see  us  now.  Could  n't  we  take  the  wind  out 
of  their  sails  ?  Could  n't  we  come  into  their  front 
door,  instead  of  their  "  back  gate  ?"  Did  n't  they 
"  always  know  that  there  was  something  in  us  ?" 
We  can  forgive  them,  though,  can't  we  ?  By  the 
title  deed,  and  insurance  policy,  of  this  bran-new 
pretty  house,  which  their  sneers  have  helped  us 
into,  and  whose  doors  shall  always  be  open  to  those 
who  have  cheered  us  on,  we  '11  do  it. 

Dropped  many  a  tear  into  you,  have  I  ?  Well — 
who  cares  ?  You  know,  very  well,  that  every 
rough  word  aimed  at  my  quivering  ears,  was  an  ex 
tra  dollar  in  my  purse  ;  every  rude  touch  of  my  little 
Nell,  strength  and  sinew  to  my  unstrung  nerves  and 
flagging  muscles.  I  say,  old  Ink-stand,  look  at  Nell 
now  !  Does  any  landlady  lay  rough  hands  on  those 
plump  shoulders  ?  Dare  she  sing  and  run,  and 
jump  and  play  to  her  heart's  content  ?  Did  n't  you 
yourself  buy  her  that  hoop  and  stick,  and  those 
dolls,  and  that  globe  of  gold-fish  ?  Don't  you  feed 
and  clothe  her,  every  day  of  her  sunshiny  life  ? 
Have  n't  you  agreed  to  do  it,  long  years  to  come  ? 
and  won't  you  teach  her,  as  you  have  me,  to  defy 
false  friends,  and  ill-fortune  ?  And  won't  you  be  to 
my  little  Nell  a  talisman,  when  my  eyes  grow  dim, 
and  hers  brighten  ?  Say,  old  Ink-stand  ? 


106  FRESH  LEAVES. 


THE  SOUL— AND  THE  STOMACH. 

THERE  is  a  good  old  man.  His  head  is  white — 
his  form  is  bent — his  step  slow  and  tremulous.  Life 
has  no  charms  for  him,  and  the  opening  grave  is  full 
of  terrors ;  he  wanders  up  and  down — up  and  down 
— wringing  his  withered  hands,  and  says,  "  I  have 
committed  the  unpardonable  sin ;  I  am  lost — lost — 
lost."  They  who  love  him,  and  their  name  is  Le 
gion,  look  on  dismayed  at  this  good  father,  good 
husband,  good  neighbor,  good  Christian  •  and  one 
of  them  says  to  me,  "  Why,  if  your  God  be  merci 
ful,  does  he  afflict  his  faithful  servant  thus  ?  God  is 
not  good !" 

God  is  good,  though  all  else  fail,  and  we,  like  in 
sects,  creep  and  complain  ;  God  is  good.  It  is  not 
religion  that  makes  the  old  man  gloomy — it  is  not 
that  the  Word  of  God  shall  not  stand  forever ;  but 
He  who  has  bid  us  care  for  the  soul,  bids  us  also 
care  for  the  body.  "  If  one  member  suffer,  all  the 
other  members  suffer  with  it."  If  we  neglect  the 
laws  of  health,  and  abuse  our  bodies,  even  in  His 
service,  he  does  not  guaranty  to  the  delinquent,  a 
strong  mind,  an  unperverted  spiritual  vision — 
clouds  and  darkness  will  come  between  us  and  the 
Sun  of  Righteousness,  and  though  we  shall  feel  after 
Him,  we  shall  grope  like  children  in  the  dark.  It  is 
an  earthly  physician  which  such  as  that  old  man 
needs  ;  a  tonic  for  the  body,  not  a  sermon  from  the 


AWE-FUL    THOUGHTS.  107 

pulpit.  Let  him  lean  upon  your  arm;  lead  him 
forth  to  the  green  fields,  where  every  little  bird 
sings  God  is  good ;  where  waving  trees  and  bios- 
.soming  flowers  pass  the  whisper  round  with  myriad 
voices ;  take  away  the  old  man's  psalm-book,  and 
let  him  listen  to  that  anthem,  and  as  the  soft  breath 
of  spring  lifts  his  white  locks  from  his  troubled 
brow,  the  film  of  disease  will  fall  from  his  eyes,  and 
he,  too,  shall  sing  that  God  is  good. 

Never  lav  upon  the  back  of  Religion  what  Dys 
pepsia  should  shoulder.  The  Christian  warrior,  no 
more  than  any  other,  can  afford  to  neglect  or  gorge 
his  "  rations"  when  preparing  for  battle ;  nor  if 
either  faint  by  the  way,  in  consequence,  is  it  to  be 
laid  to  the  commander. 


AWE-FUL    THOUGHTS. 

"  This  had,  from  the  very  beginning  of  their  acquaintance,«in- 
duced  in  her  that  awe,  which  is  the  most  delicious  feeling  a  wife 
can  have  toward  her  husband." 

"A.  WE !" — awe  of  a  man  whose  whiskers  you 
have  trimmed,  whose  hair  you  have  cut,  whose  cra 
vats  you  have  tied,  whose  shirts  you  have  "  put  into 
the  wash,"  whose  boots  and  shoes  you  have  kicked 
into  the  closet,  whose  dressing-gown  you  have 
worn  while  combing  your  hair  ;  who  has  been  down 
cellar  with  you  at  eleven  o'clock  at  night,  to  hunt 


108  FRESH    LEAVES. 

for  a  chicken-bone ;  who  has  hooked  your  dresses, 
unlaced  your  boots,  fastened  your  bracelets,  and 
tied  on  your  bonnet;  who  has  stood  before  your 
looking-glass,  Yvith  thumb  and  finger  on  his  probos 
cis,  scraping  his  chin ;  whom  you  have  buttered,  and 
sugared,  and  toasted,  and  tea-ed ;  whom  have  seen 
asleep  with  his  mouth  wide  open  I  Ei — diculous ! 


A  WORD  TO  PARENTS  AND  TEACHERS. 

WHY  will  New  York  women  be  eternally  munch 
ing  cake  and  confectionery  ?  What  is  more  disgust 
ing  than  to  see  a  lady  devouring  at  a  sitting,  ounces 
of  burnt  almonds,  and  sugared  wine  and  brand}^- 
drops,  or  packing  away,  in  her  rosy  mouth,  un 
counted  platesful  of  jelly-cake  or  maccaroons  ? 
"  But  shopping  is  hungry  business ;"  that  is  true, 
and  many  a  shopper  comes  hungry  distances  to  per 
form  it ;  but  are  cake  and  confectionery  wholesome 
diet  between  meals  ?  and  is  not  ice-cream  at  such  a 
time  rank  poison  ?  Call  for  a  sandwich  or  a  roll, 
and  you  may  not  be  considered  suicidal. 

Every  body  knows  that  young  girls  are  foreor 
dained  to  go  through  a  regular  experience  in  eating 
slate-pencils,  burnt  quills,  pickles,  and  chalk;  but 
this  green  age  passed,  one  looks  for  a  little  common 
sense.  I  have  often  seen  New  York  women,  not 
content  with  ruining  their  own  constitution  in  this 


A    WORD    TO    PARENTS    AND    TEACHERS.        109 

way  (and  consequently  periling  their  prospective 
offspring),  buy,  before  leaving  the  confectioner's 
shop,  five  or  six  pounds  of  candy  for  nursery  distri 
bution,  and  ask  Betty,  the  next  day  (the  sapient 
mother  !),  "  what  can  ail  those  children  to  fret  so  ?" 
It  were  more  merciful  to  purchase  a  dose  of  strych 
nine,  and  put  an  immediate  end  to  their  misery, 
than  thus  murder  them  by  inches.  Are  the  rosy, 
robust,  beautiful  English  children,  candy-fed  ?  Are 
they  suffered  to  gorge  themselves  on  hot  bread,  pre 
serves,  cake  and  pastry,  ad  libitum  ?  Do  they  have 
any  thing  but  the  plainest  puddings,  the  stalest 
bread,  and  the  most  unmitigated  roast  and  boiled 
meat,  unpoisoned  by  those  dyspepsia- breeding  gra 
vies  of  ours  ? 

It  is  pitiful,  this  dwarfing  of  American  children 
with  improper  food,  want  of  exercise,  and  cork 
screw  clothes.  It  is  inhuman  to  require  of  their 
enfeebled  minds  and  bodies,  in  ill- ventilated  school 
rooms,  tasks  which  the  most  vigorous  child  should 
never  have  imposed  upon  his  tender  years.  As  if  a 
child's  physique  were  not  of  the  first  importance  ! — 
as  if  all  the  learning  in  the  world  could  be  put  to 
any  practical  use  by  an  enfeebled  body  !  As  if  a 
parent  had  a  right,  year  after  year,  thus  to  murder 
the  innocents. 

Think  of  one  of  those  candy-and-cake-fed  young 

girls,  bending  over  her  tasks  in  school,  from  nine 

o'clock  till  three,  with  perhaps  ten  or  fifteen  minutes 

intermission  (spent  in  the  close  air  of  the  school- 

10 


110  FRESH    LEAVES. 

room)  and  two  days  out  of  a  week  at  three,  after 
another  ten  minutes'  intermission,  and  another  cake- 
and-candy  feed,  Commencing  drawing,  or  music 
lessons,  to  last  till  five ;  her  mother,  meanwhile, 
rocking  away  as  comfortably,  in  her  chair  at  home, 
as  if  her  daughter's  spine  were  not  crooking  irre 
trievably.  I  will  not  speak  of  the  utter  impossibility 
that  this  young  girl  should  have  a  steady  hand  for 
drawing,  under  such  circumstances,  because  any  fool 
can  understand  that  to  be  impossible. 

I  ask  what  right  have  you  to  require  of  your 
child,  your  growing,  restless  child,  what  it  would  be 
impossible  for  you  to  do  yourself?  You  know  very 
well  that  you  could  not  keep  your  mind  on  the 
stretch  for  so  many  hours  to  any  profit ;  or  your 
body  in  one  position  for  such  a  length  of  time,  with 
out  excessive  pain  and  untold  weariness.  Then  add 
to  this  the  tasks  which  must  be  conned  on  the  re 
turn  home  for  the  next  day's  lesson,  and  one  mar 
vels  no  longer  at  the  sickly,  sallow,  narrow-chested, 
leaden-eyed  young  girls  we  are  in  the  habit  of  meet 
ing. 

What  would  I  have  ?  I  would  have  teachers  less 
selfishly  consult  their  own  convenience,  in  insisting 
upon  squeezing  into  the  forenoon  what  should  be 
divided  between  forenoon  and  afternoon,  as  in  the 
good  old-fashioned  way  of  keeping  school,  with  time 
to  eat  a  wholesome  dinner  between.  A  teacher's 
established  constitution  may  possibly  stand  this 
modern  nonsense  (though  I  am  told  not  long) ;  but 


LADY    DOCTORS.  Ill 

that  children  should  be  thus  victimized,  without  at 
least  a  remonstrance  on  the  part  of  their  natural 
guardians,  I  can  only  ascribe  to  the  criminal  indif 
ference  of  parents  to  the  welfare  of  their  offspring. 


LADY    DOCTORS. 

AND  so  the  female  doctors  are  prospering  and  get 
ting  practice.  I  am  sure  I  am  heartily  glad  of  it,  for 
several  reasons  :  one  of  which  is,  that  it  is  an  hon 
est  and  honorable  deliverance  from  the  everlasting, 
non-remunerating,  consumptive-provoking,  monoto 
nous  needle.  Another  is,  that  it  is  a  more  excel 
lent  way  of  support,  than  by  the  mercenary  and 
un-retraceable  road,  through  the  church-door  to  the 
altar,  into  which  so  many  non-reliant  women  are 
driven.  Having  said  this  I  feel  at  liberty  to  remark 
that  we  all  have  our  little  fancies,  and  one  of  mine 
is,  that  a  hat  is  a  pleasanter  object  of  contemplation 
in  a  sick-room  than  a  bonnet.  I  think,  too,  that  my 
wrist  reposes  more  comfortably  in  a  big  hand  than  a 
little  one,  and  if  my  mouth  is  to  be  inspected,  I  pre 
fer  submitting  it  to  a  beard  than  to  a  flounce.  Still, 
this  may  be  a  narrow  prejudice — I  dare  say  it  is — 
but  like  most  of  my  prejudices,  I  am  afraid  no 
amount  of  fire  will  burn  it  out  of  me. 

A  female  doctor !  Great  Esculapius !  Before 
swallowing  her  pills  (of  which  she  would  be  the 


112  FRESH    LEAVES. 

first),  I  should  want  to  make  sure  that  I  had  never 
come  between  her  and  a  lover,  or  a  new  bonnet,  or 
been  the  innocent  recipient  of  a  gracious  smile  from 
her  husband.  If  I  desired  her  undivided  attention 
to  my  case,  I  should  first  remove  the  looking-glass, 
and  if  a  consultation  seemed  advisable,  I  should 
wish  to  arm  myself  with  a  gridiron,  or  a  darning- 
needle,  or  some  other  appropriate  weapon,  before 
expressing  such  a  wish.  If  my  female  doctor  rec 
ommended  a  blister  on  my  head,  I  should  strongly 
doubt  its  necessity  if  my  hair  happened  to  be  hand 
some,  also  the  expediency  of  a  scar-defacing  plaster 
for  my  neck,  if  it  happened  to  be  plump  and  white. 
Still,  these  may  be  little  prejudices ;  very  like  they 
are ;  but  this  I  will  say,  before  the  breath  is  taken 
out  of  me  by  any  female  doctor,  that  while  I  am  in 
my  senses  I  will  never  exchange  my  gentlemanly, 
soft-voiced,  soft-stepping,  experienced,  intelligent, 
handsome  doctor,  for  all  the  female  M.  D.'s  who 
ever  carved  up  dead  bodies  or  live  characters — or 
tore  each  other's  caps. 


THE    CHERUB    IN    THE    OMNIBUS. 

THEY  stepped  in  together — the  man  and  his  wife 
— honest,  healthy  country-folk.  She — rosy  and 
plump;  he — stalwart,  broad-chested,  and  strong- 
limbed,  as  God  intended  man  and  woman  to  be.  I 
might  not  have  noticed  them  particularly,  but  they 


THE    CHERUB    IN    THE    OMNIBUS.  113 

had  a  baby;  and  such  a  baby!  None  of  your 
flabby  city  abortions ;  but  a  flesh-and-blood  baby — 
a  baby  to  make  one's  mouth  water — ay,  and  eyes, 
too  !  Such  a  baby  as  might  have  been  born  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden,  had  the  serpent  never  crept  in  ; 
born  of  parents  fed  on  strawberries  and  pomegran 
ates — pure  in  soul,  pure  in  body,  and  healthy  and 
vigorous  as  purity  alone  can  be. 

Such  a  baby !  such  eyes — such  a  skin — such  be 
wildering  lips — such  a  heaven-born  smile ;  my  eyes 
overflowed  as  I  looked  at  it.  I  was  not  worthy  to 
hold  that  baby,  but  my  heart  yearned  for  it,  and  I 
held  out  my  hands  invitingly. 

See  !  the  little  trusting  thing  leaps  from  its  father's 
arms  and  sits  smiling  on  my  knee.  Ah !  little  baby, 
turn  away  those  soft  blue  eyes  from  mine ;  is  it  not 
enough  that  my  soul  is  on  its  knees  to  you  ?  Is  it 
not  enough,  that  for  every  bitter  word  wrung  from 
my  tortured  soul  by  wrong  and  suffering,  I  could 
cry :  "  God  be  merciful  to  me  a  sinner  ?" 

And  yet,  little  baby,  I  was  once  like  thee.  Like 
thee,  I  stretched  out  the  trusting  hand  to  those  who 

ah,  little  baby — I  am  not  like  thee  now ;  yet 

stay  with  me,  and  perhaps  I  shall  be.  Jesus  "  took 
a  little  child  and  set  him  in  the  midst."  Take  hold 
of  my  hand,  and  lead  me  to  heaven. 

Going  ?  then  God  be  with  thee,  as  surely  as  he 
has  been  with  me,  in  thy  pure  presence.  I  shall 
see  thee  again,  little  baby,  if  I  heed  thy  teachings ; 
thou  hast  done  thy  silent  mission. 


114  FRESH    LEAVES. 


FANNY    FORD. 

CHAPTER     I. 

IT  was  a  mad  freak  of  dame  Nature  to  fashion 
Mary  Ford  after  so  dainty  a  model,  and  then  open 
her  blue  eyes  in  a  tumble-down  house  in  Peck-lane. 
But  Mary  cares  little  for  that.  Fortune  has  given 
her  wheel  a  whirl  since  then,  and  Jacob  Ford  is  now 
on  the  top.  Mary  sees  the  young  and  the  old,  the 
grave  and  the  gay,  the  wise  and  the  ignorant,  smile 
on  her  sweet  face ;  as  she  passes,  men  murmur 
"  beautiful,"  and  women  pick  flaws  in  her  face  and 
figure.  She  can  not  sleep  for  serenades,  and  her 
little  room  is  perfumed,  from  May  to  January,  with 
the  rarest  of  hot-house  flowers.  Lovers,  too,  come 
wooing  by  the  score.  And  yet,  Mary  is  no  co 
quette  ;  no  more  than  the  sweet  flower,  which  nods, 
and  sways,  and  sends  forth  its  perfume  for  very  joy 
that  it  blossoms  in  the  bright  sunshine,  all  uncon 
scious  how  it  tempts  the  passer-by  to  pluck  it  for 
his  own  wearing.  A  queenly  girl  was  the  tailor's 
daughter,  with  her  Juno-like  figure,  her  small,  well- 
shaped  head,  poised  so  daintily  on  the  fair  white 
throat;  with  her  large  blue  eyes,  by  turns  brilliant 
as  the  lightning's  flash,  then  soft  as  a  moonbeam ; 
with  her  pretty  mouth,  and  the  dimple  which  lay 
perdu  in  the  corner,  with  the  flossy  waves  of  her 
dark  brown  hair;  with  her  soft,  white  hands,  and 


FANNY    FORD.  115 

twinkling  little  feet ;  with  her  winsome  smile,  and 
floating  grace  of  motion. 

Percy  Lee  was  conquered.  Percy — who  had 
withstood  blue  eyes  and  black,  gray  eyes  and  hazel. 
Percy — for  whom  many  a  fair  girl  had  smiled  and 
pouted  in  vain.  Percy  the  bookworm.  Percy — 
handsome  as  Apollo,  cold  as  Mont  Blanc.  Percy 
Lee  was  fettered  at  last,  and  right  merrily  did  mis 
chievous  Cupid  forge,  one  by  one,  his  chains  for  the 
stoic.  No  poor  fish  ever  so  writhed  and  twisted  on 
the  hook,  till  the  little  word  was  whispered  which 
made  him  in  lover's  parlance,  "  the  happiest  of 
men." 

Of  course,  distanced  competitors  wondered  what 
Mary  Ford  could  see  to  admire  in  that  book-worm 
of  a  Percy.  Of  course,  managing  mammas,  with 
marriageable  daughters,  were  shocked  that  Miss 
Ford  should  have  angled  for  him  so  transparently  ; 
and  the  young  ladies  themselves  marveled  that  the 
aristocratic  Percy  should  fancy  a  tailor's  daughter  j 
of  course  the  lovers,  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  their 
felicity,  could  afford  to  let  them  think  and  say  what 
they  pleased. 

The  torpid  sexagenarian,  or  frigid  egotist,  may 
sneer;  but  how  beautiful  is  this  measureless  first 
love,  before  distrust  has  chilled,  or  selfishness 
blighted,  or  the  scorching  sun  of  worldliness  evap 
orated  the  heart's  dew ;  when  we  trust'-with  child 
hood's  sweet  faith,  because  we  love ;  when  care  and 
sorrow  are  undiscernible  shapes  in  the  distance ; 


116  FRESH    LEAVES. 

when  at  every  footstep  we  ring  the  chime  of  joy 
from  out  the  flowers.  What  can  earth  offer  after 
this  sparkling  draught  has  been  quaffed  ?  How  stale 
its  after  spiritless  effervescences  ! 

Percy's  love  for  Mary  was  all  the  more  pure  and 
intense,  that  he  had  hitherto  kept  his  heart  free  from 
youthful  entanglements.  Fastidious  and  refined  to 
a  degree,  perhaps  this  with  him  was  as  much  a 
matter  of  necessity  as  of  choice.  In  Mary  both  his 
heart  and  taste  were  satisfied ;  true,  he  sometimes 
wondered  how  so  delicate  and  dainty  a  flower 
should  have  blossomed  from  out  so  rude  a  soil ;  for 
her  father's  money  could  neither  obliterate  nor  gild 
over  the  traces  of  his  innate  vulgarity  •  in  fact,  his 
love  for  his  daughter  was  his  only  redeeming  trait — 
the  only  common  ground  upon  which  the  father  and 
lover  could  meet.  The  petty  accumulation  of  for 
tune  by  the  penny,  had  narrowed  and  hardened  a 
heart  originally  good  and  unselfish  ;  the  love  of  gold 
for  its  own  sake  had  swallowed  up  every  other 
thought  and  feeling.  Like  many  persons  of  humble 
origin,  whose  intellects  have  not  expanded  with 
their  coffers,  Jacob  Ford  overrated  the  accident  of 
birth  and  position,  and  hence  was  well  pleased  with 
Mary's  projected  alliance  with  Percy. 

"  Well,  to  be  sure,  Lucy,  beauty  is  a  great  tiling 
for  a  girl,"  he  one  day  said  to  his  wife.  "  I  did  not 
dream  of  this  when  Mary  used  to  climb  up  on  the 
counter  of  my  little  dark  shop  in  Peck-lane,  and  sit 
playing  with  the  goose  and  shears." 


FANNY   FORD.  11 7 

"  Nor  I,"  replied  Lucy,  as  she  looked  around  their 
handsome  apartment,  with  a  satisfied  smile ;  "  nor 
I,  Jacob,  when,  after  paying  me  one  Saturday  night 
for  my  week's  work,  you  said,  '  Lucy,  you  can  be 
mistress  of  this  shop  if  you  like.'  I  was  so  proud 
and  happy :  for,  indeed,  it  was  lonesome  enough, 
Jacob,  stitching  in  that  gloomy  old  garret.  I  often 
used  to  think  how  dreadful  it  would  be  to  be  sick 
and  die  there  alone,  as  poor  Hetty  Can*  did.  It  was 
a  pity,  Jacob,  you  did  not  pay  her  more,  and  she  so 
weakly,  too.  Often  she  would  sit  up  all  night,  sew 
ing,  with  that  dreadful  cough  racking  her." 

"  Tut — tut — wife,"  said  Jacob ;  "  she  was  not 
much  of  a  seamstress  ;  you  always  had  a  soft  heart, 
Lucy,  and  were  easily  imposed  upon  by  a  whining 
story." 

"  It  was  too  true,  Jacob ;  and  she  had  been  dead 
a  whole  day  before  any  one  found  it  out;  then,  as 
she  had  no  friends,  she  was  buried  at  the  expense 
of  the  city,  and  the  coffin  they  brought  was  too 
short  for  her,  and  they  crowded  her  poor  thin  limbs 
into  it,  and  carried  her  away  in  the  poor's  hearsa 
Sometimes,  Jacob,  I  get  very  gloomy  when  I  think 
of  this,  and  look  upon  our  own  beautiful  darling ; 
and,  sometimes,  Jacob — you  won't  be  angry  with 
me  ?"  asked  the  good  woman,  coaxingly,  as  she  laid 
her  hand  upon  his  arm — "  sometimes  I've  thought 
our  money  would  never  do  us  any  good." 

"  Pshaw !"  exclaimed  Jacob,  impatiently  shaking 
off  his  wife's  hand ;  "  pshaw,  Lucy,  you  are  like  all 


118  FRESH    LEAVES. 

other  women,  weak  and  superstitious.  A  man  must 
look  out  for  number  one.  Small  profits  a  body 
would  make  to  conduct  business  on  your  principles. 
Grab  all, you  can,  keep  all  you  get,  is  every  body's 
motto ;  why  should  I  set  up  to  be  wiser  than  my 
neighbors  ?" 

Lucy  Ford  sighed.  A  wife  is  very  apt  to  be  con 
vinced  by  her  husband's  reasoning,  if  she  loves  him ; 
and  perhaps  Lucy  might  have  been,  had  she  not  her 
self  known  what  it  was  to  sit  stitching  day  after 
day  in  her  garret,  till  her  young  brain  reeled,  and 
her  heart  grew  faint  and  sick,  or  lain  in  her  little 
bed,  too  weary  even  to  sleep,  listening  to  the  dull 
rain  as  it  pattered  on  the  skylight,  and  wishing  she 
were  dead. 

A  pressure  of  soft  lips  upon  her  forehead,  and  a 
merry  laugh,  musical  as  the  ringing  of  silver  bells, 
roused  Lucy  from  her  reverie. 

"  Good-by — mother  dear,"  said  Mary ;  "I  could 
not  go  to  ride  with  Percy  without  a  kiss  from  you. 
Come  to  the  window — look !  Are  not  those  pretty 
horses  of  Percy's?  They  skim  the  ground  like 
birds !  And  see  what  a  pretty  carriage  !  Now  ac 
knowledge  that  my  lover's  taste  is  perfect." 

"  Yes — when  he  chose  you,"  said  Jacob,  gazing 
admiringly  on  Mary's  bright  face  and  graceful  form. 
"  You  would  grace  a  court,  Mary,  if  you  are  old 
Jacob  Ford's  daughter." 

Mary  threw  her  arms  around  the  old  man's  neck, 
and  kissed  his  bronze  cheek.  To  her  the  name  of 


FANNY    FORD.  119 

father  was  another  name  for  love  j  nurtured  in  this 
kindly  atmosphere,  she  could  as  little  comprehend 
how  a  child  could  cease  to  worship  a  parent,  as  she 
could  comprehend  how  a  parent,  when  his  child 
asked  for  bread,  should  mock  his  misery  with  a 
stone.  Unspoiled  by  the  world's  flatteries,  she  had 
not  learned  to  undervalue  her  doting  father's  love, 
that  it  was  expressed  in  ungrammatical  phrase  ;  she 
had  not  yet  learned  to  blush  at  any  old-fashioned 
breach  of  etiquette  (on  his  part),  in  the  presence  of 
her  fastidious  young  friends;  and  by  her  marked 
deference  to  her  parents  in  their  presence,  she  in  a 
measure  exacted  the  same  from  them.  It  was  one 
of  the  loveliest  traits  in  Mary's  character,  and  one 
for  which  Percy,  who  appreciated  her  refinement, 
loved  and  respected  her  the  more. 

"  Have  your  fortune  told,  lady  ?"  asked  a  withered 
old  woman,  of  Alary,  as  she  tripped  down  the  steps 
to  join  Percy. 

"  Of  course,"  said  the  laughing  girl :  "  suppose 
you  tell  me  whom  I  am  to  marry,"  with  a  gay 
glance  at  Percy  ;  and  she  ungloved  her  small  white 
hand,  while  the  dame's  withered  fingers  traced  its 
delicate  lines. 

"  Retribution  is  written  here,"  said  the  old  woman, 
solemnly ;  "  your  sun  will  set  early,  fair  girl." 

"  Come  away,  Mary,"  said  Percy,  with  a  frown, 
shaking  his  whip  at  the  woman,  "  the  old  thing  is 
becrazed." 


120  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"  Time  will  show,"  muttered  the  beldame,  pocket 
ing  the  coin  with  which  Mary  had  crossed  her  hand ; 
"  time  will  show ;  brighter  eyes  than  yours,  fair  lady, 
have  wept  themselves  dim." 

"  What  can  she  mean  ?"  said  Mary,  drawing  in 
voluntarily  close  to  the  side  of  her  lover.  "  I  almost 
wish  we  had  not  seen  her." 

The  spirits  of  youth  are  elastic.  The  April  cloud 
^oon  passed  from  Mary's  brow,  and  before  the  fleet 
horses  had  skimmed  a  mile,  her  laugh  rang  out  as 
merrily  as  ever. 

The  lovers  had  both  a  trained  eye  for  natural 
beauty,  and  the  lovely  road  through  which  they 
passed,  with  its  brown  houses  half  hidden  in  foliage 
— the  lazy  grazing  cattle — the  scent  of  new-mown 
hay  and  breath  of  flowers — the  rude  song  of  the 
plowman  and  the  delicate  twitter  of  the  bird — the 
far-off  hills,  with  their  tall  trees  distinctly  defined 
against  the  clear  blue  sky — the  silver  stream  and 
velvet  meadows — the  wind's  wild  anthem,  now 
swelling  as  if  in  full  chorus,  then  soft  and  sweet  as 
the  murmur  of  a  sleeping  babe,  all  filled  their  hearts 
with  a  quiet  joy. 

"  Life  is  very  sweet,"  said  Mary,  turning  her  lus 
trous  eyes  upon  her  lover.  "  People  say  that  hap 
piness  and  prosperity  harden  the  heart ;  when  I  am 
most  blest  I  feel  most  devotional.  In  vain  might 
the  infidel  tell  me  l  there  is  no  God,'  with  such  a 
scene  as  this  before  me,  or  fetter  my  grateful  heart- 
pulses  as  they  adored  the  Giver." 


FANNY  FORD.  121 

"  You  dear  little  saint,"  said  Percy,  with  a  light 
laugh,  "how  well  you  preach.  Well — my  mother 
was  neck-deep  in  religion ;  the  prayers  arid  hymns 
she  taught  me,  stay  by  me  now,  whether  I  will  or 
no.  I  often  catch  myself  saying  '  Now  I  lay  me,' 
when  I  go  to  bed,  from  the  mere  force  of  habit;  but 
your  rosy  lips  were  never  made  to  mumble  pater 
nosters,  Mary :  leave  that  to  crafty  priests,  and  dis 
appointed  nuns.  Religion,  my  pet,  is  another  name 
for  humbug,  all  the  world  over ;  your  would-be-saint 
always  cheats  in  proportion  to  the  length  of  his  face 
and  his  prayers.  Bah !  don't  let  us  talk  of  it." 

"  Don't — dear  Percy,"  said  Mary.  "  I  like  you 
less  well  when  you  talk  so ;  religion  is  the  only  sure 
basis  of  character.  Every  superstructure  not  built 
an  this  foundation — " 

"Must  topple  over,  I  suppose,"  said  Percy. 
"  Don't  you  believe  it,  my  angel.  I  am  a  living  ex 
ample  to  the  contrary ;  but  Cupid  knows  I  would 
subscribe  to  any  article  of  faith  emanating  from  your 
rosy  lips ;"  and  Percy  drew  rein  at  the  door  of  his 
father-in-law's  mansion,  and  leaping  out,  assisted 
Mary  to  alight. 

"Such  a  lovely  drive  as  we  have  had,  dear 
mother,"  said  Mary,  throwing  her  hat  upon  the 
table.  "  Percy  has  just  gone  off  with  a  client  on 
business ;  he  will  be  back  presently.  Dear  Percy ! 
he 's  just  the  best  fellow  in  the  world — a  little  lax 
on  religious  points,  but  he  loves  me  well  enough  to 
11 


122  FRESH    LEAVES. 

be  influenced  there.  Now  I  will  sit  down  at  this 
window  while  I  sew,  and  then  I  shall  see  Percy 
when  he  comes  up  the  street." 

Nimbly  her  fingers  moved ;  her  merry  song  keep 
ing  time  the  while.  Now  a  blush  flitting  over  her 
cheek,  then  a  smile  dimpling  it.  She  was  thinking 
of  their  beautiful  home  that  was  to  be,  and  how  like 
a  fairy  dream  her  life  would  pass,  with  that  deep, 
rich  voice  lingering  ever  in  her  ear ;  cares,  if  they 
came,  lightened  by  each  other's  presence,  or  turned 
to  joys  by  mutual  sympathy.  And  then,  she  was 
so  proud  of  him."  A  woman's  love  is  so  deepened 
by  that  thought. 

God  pity  her,  who,  with  a  great  soul,  indissolubly 
bound,  must  walk  ever  backward  with  a  mantle 
(alas!  all  too  transparent),  to  cover  her  husband's 
mental  nakedness! 

CHAPTER    II. 

"A  GENTLEMAN,  sir,  to  see  you,"  said  a  servant  to 
Jacob  Ford,  as  he  ushered  in  his  old  friend,  Mr. 
Trask. 

"  Ah,  Trask,  how  are  you  ?  Glad  to  see  you," 
said  Jacob,  with  one  of  his  vice-like  shakes  of  the 
hand.  "  Come  for  a  rubber  at  whist  ?  That 's 
right.  I  was  thinking  to-day,  how  long  it  was 
since  you  and  I  had  a  quiet  hour  together.  How  's 
trade,  Trask?  You  ought  to  be  making  money. 
Why,  what's  the  matter,  man?"  clapping  him  on 


FANNY    FORD.  123 

the  shoulder;  "never  saw  you  this  way  before; 
hang  me  if  you  don't  look  as  solemn  as  old  Parson 
Glebe.  Why  don't  you  speak?  Why  do  you 
stare  at  me  so  ?" 

"  Jacob,"  replied  Mr.  Trask,  and  there  he  stopped. 

"  Well — that 's  my  name  ;  Jacob  Ford  :  as  good 
a  name  as  you  '11  find  on  'change.  I  never  have 
done  any  thing  to  make  me  ashamed  of  it." 

"  I  wish  every  body  could  say  as  much,"  said 
Trask,  gravely. 

"  What  are  you  driving  at  ?"  asked  Jacob  Ford ; 
"  don't  talk  riddles  to  me — they  get  me  out  of  tem 
per.  If  you  have  any  tiling  to  tell,  out  with  it. 
I  've  seen  fifty  years'  wear  and  tear ;  I  'm  not  fright 
ened  by  trifles." 

"  But  this  is  no  trifle,  Ford.  I  can't  do  it,"  said 
the  soft-hearted  Mr.  Trask.  "  Jacob,  my  old  friend 
— I — can't  do  it,"  and  he  sat  down  and  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 

"  Come — come,"  said  Jacob  ;  "  take  heart,  man. 
If  you  have  got  into  a  scrape,  Jacob  Ford  is  not  the 
man  to  desert  an  old  friend ;  if  a  few  hundreds  or 
more  will  set  it  all  right,  you  shall  have  it." 

"  For  God's  sake,  stop,"  said  Trask  ;  "  the  shadow 
has  fallen  on  your  threshold,  not  on  mine.'" 

"  Mine  ?"  replied  Jacob,  with  a  bewildered  look. 
"  Mine  ?"  defalcations  ?  banks  broke  ?  hey  ?  Jacob 
Ford  a  beggar,  after  fifty  years'  toil  ?" 

"  Worse — worse,"  said  Trask,  making  a  violent 
effort  to  speak.  "  Percy  Lee  is  arrested  for  em- 


124  FRESH    LEAVES. 

bezzlement,  and  I  have  proofs  of  his  guilt.  There 
— -now  I  've  said  it." 

"  Man !  do  you  know  this  ?"  said  Jacob,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper,  putting  his  white  lips  close  to  his 
friend's  ear;  as  if  he  feared  the  very  walls  would  tell 
the  secret. 

"  Before  God,  'tis  true,"  said  Trask,  solemnly. 

"Then  God's  curse  light  on  the  villain,"  said  Ja 
cob  Ford.  "  My  Mary — my  bright,  beautiful  Mary ! 
Oh !  who  will  tell  her  ?  Listen,  Trask,  that 's  her 
voice — singing.  Oh,  God — oh  God,  this  is  too 
dreadful" — and  the  old  man  bowed  his  head  upon 
his  breast,  and  wept  like  a  child. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  asked  Lucy  Ford, 
opening  the  door.  "  Jacob  —  husband — Trask — 
what  is  it  ?  and  she  looked  from  one  to  the  other,  in 
bewildered  wonder. 

"  Tell  her,  Trask,"  whispered  Jacob. 

" Don't  weep  so,  dear  Jacob,"  said  Lucy ;  "if 
money  has  gone,  we  can  both  go  to  work  again  ;  we 
both  know  how.  Mary  will  soon  have  a  home  of 
her  own." 

Jacob  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  seizing  Lucy  by  the 
arm,  hissed  in  her  ear,  "  Woman,  don't  you  name 
him.  May  God's  curse  blight  him.  May  he  die 
alone.  May  his  bones  bleach  in  the  winds  of  hea 
ven,  and  his  soul  be  forever  damned.  Lucy — Percy 
Lee  is  a — a — swindler  !  There — now  go  break  her 
heart,  if  you  can.  Lucy  ? — Trask  ?" — and  Jacob, 
wercome  with  the  violence  of  his  feelings,  wept 


FANNY   FORD.  125 

again  like  a  child ;  while  poor  Lucy,  good  Lucy,  hid 
her  face  on  her  husband's  breast,  repressing  her  own 
anguish  that  she  might  not  add  to  his. 

"  Who  's  going  to  tell  Aer,  I  say  ?"  said  Jacob. 
"  May  my  tongue  wither  before  I  do  it.  My  dar 
ling — my  loving,  beautiful  darling — who  will  tell 
her?" 

"I,"  said  the  mother,  with  ashen  lips,  as  she 
raised  herself  slowly  from  her  husband's  breast,  and 
moved  toward  the  door. 

Clutching  at  the  balustrade  for  support,  Lucy 
dragged  herself  slowly  up  stairs.  Ah !  well  might 
she  reel  to  and  fro  as  she  heard  Mary's  voice : 

"  Bring  flowers,  bring  flowers  for  the  bride  to  wear, 
They  were  bora  to  blush  in  her  shining  hair  ; 
She  is  leaving  the  home  of  her  childhood's  mirth, 
She  hath  bid  farewell  to  her  father's  hearth, 
Her  place  is  now  by  another's  side ; 
Bring  flowers  for  the  locks  of  the  fair  young  bride." 

A  trembling  hand  was  laid  upon  Mary's  shoulder. 
She  shook  back  her  long  bright  hair,  and  looked 
smilingly  up  into  her  mother's  face. 

"Mary,"  said  Lucy,  solemnly,  "you  will  never 
marry  Percy  Lee." 

"  Dead  ?  Percy  dead  ?  Oh — no — no,"  gasped 
the  poor  girl.  "  My  Percy  I — no — no !" 

"  Worse — worse,"  said  Lucy,  throwing  her  pro 
tecting  arms  around  her  child.  "  Mary,  Percy  Lee 
is  a  swindler  •  he  is  unworthy  of  you ;  you  must 
forget  him." 

11* 


126  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"  Never,"  said  Mary — "  never !  Who  dare  say 
that  ?  Where  is  he  ? — take  me  to  him ;"  and  she 
sunk  fainting  to  the  floor. 

"  I  have  killed  her,"  said  the  weeping  mother,  as 
she  chafed  her  cold  temples,  and  kissed  her  colorless 
lips.  "  I  have  killed  her,"  she  murmured,  bending 
over  her,  as  Mary  passed  from  one  convulsive  fit  to 
another. 

"  Will  she  die,  Jacqb  ?"  asked  Lucy,  looking 
mournfully  up  into  her  husband's  pallid  face.  "  Will 
she  die,  Jacob  ?" 

"  Better  so,"  groaned  the  old  man.  "  God's  curse 
on  him  who  has  done  this.  She  was  my  all.  What's 
my  gold  good  for,  if  it  can  not  bring  back  the  light 
to  her  eye,  the  peace  to  her  heart  ?  My  gold  that  I 
have  toiled  for,  and  piled  up  in  shining  heaps :  what 
is  it  good  for  ?" 

"  The  curse  was  on  it,  Jacob,"  groaned  Lucy. 
"  Oh,  Jacob,  I  told  you  so.  God  forgive  us  j  it  was 
cankered  gold." 

"  Why  did  the  villain  bkst  my  home  ?"  asked  Ja 
cob,  apparently  unconscious  of  what  Lucy  had  said  j 
"  kill  my  one  ewe  lamb ;  all  Jacob  had  to  love — all 
that  made  him  human  ?  Lucy,  I  never  prayed,  but 
perhaps  He  would  hear,  me  for  her;"  and  he  knelt 
by  his  child.  "  Oh  God,  make  my  soul  miserable 
forever,  if  thou  wilt,  but  spare  her — take  the  misery 
out  of  her  heart." 

"  If  it  be  Thy  will,"  responded  Lucy. 

"  Don't  say  that,  Lucy,"  said  Jacob.  "  I  must 
have  it  so  : — what  has  she  done,  poor  lamb  ?" 


FANNY    FORD.  127 


CHAPTER      III. 

PERCY  LEE  a  defaulter — a  swindler!  The  news 
flew  like  wildfire. 

li~No  great  catch,  after  all,"  said  a  rival  beauty, 
tossing  her  ringlets. 

"  I  expected  something  of  that  sort,"  said  a  mod 
ern  Solomon. 

"  Hope  he  ?11  be  imprisoned  for  life,"  said  a  char 
itable  tailor,  whom  Jacob  Ford  had  eclipsed,  C{  this 
will  bring  Jacob's  pride  down  a  trifle,  I  'm  think- 
ing." 

"  How  lucky  you  did  not  succeed  in  catching 
him,"  said  a  mother,  confidentially,  to  her  daughter. 

"  I  ?"  exclaimed  the  young  lady.  "  I  ?  Is  it  pos 
sible  you  can  be  so  stupid,  mamma,  as  to  suppose  I 
would  waste  a  thought  on  Percy  Lee!  I  assure 
you  he  offered  himself  to  Mary  Ford  in  a  fit  of  pique 
at  my  rejection.  Don't  imagine  you  are  in  all  my 
secrets,"  said  the  dutiful  young  lady,  tossing  her 
head.  "  Well — her  disappearance  from  society  is 
certain — thank  goodness — not  that  she  interferes 
with  me  ;  but  her  pretended  simplicity  is  so  disgust 
ing  !  What  the  men  in  our  set  could  see  to  admire 
in  her,  passes  me ;  but  chacun  a  son  gout? 

"  Of  course,  Lee  will  get  clear,"  said  a  rough  dray 
man  to  his  comrade.  u  These  big  fish  always  floun 
der  out  of  the  net ;  it  is  only  the  minnows  who  get 
caught.  Satan  !  it  makes  me  swear  to  think  of  it. 


128  FRESH    LEAVES. 

I  will  be  sure  to  stand  at  the  court-house  door  when 
he  is  brought  for  trial,  and  insult  him  if  I  can.  I 
hope  the  aristocratic  hound  will  swing  for  it." 

"  Come,  now,  Jo,"  said  his  friend,  taking  out  his 
penknife,  and  sitting  down  on  a  stump  to  whittle. 
''  You  are  always  a  railing  at  the  aristocracy,  as  you 
call  'em.  I  never  knew  a  man  who  talks  as  you  do, 
who  was  not  an  aristocrat  at  heart,  worshiping  the 
very  wealth  and  station  he  sneered  at.  Don't  be  a 
fool,  John.  We  are  far  happier,  or  might  be,  with 
our  teams,  plenty  of  jobs,  and  good  health,  than 
these  aristocrats,  as  you  call  them,  who  half  the  time 
are  tossing  on  their  pillows,  because  this  ship  has  n't 
arrived  in  port,  or  that  land  speculation  has  burst 
up,  or  stocks  depreciated,  or  some  such  cursed  can 
ker  at  the  root  of  all  their  gourds.  Now  there 's 
poor  Jacob  Ford ;  of  what  use  are  all  his  riches,  now 
his  daughter's  heart  is  broke  ?  And  Percy  Lee,  too 
— will  his  fine  education  and  book  learning  get  him 
out  of  the  clutches  of  the  law  ?  Have  a  little  char 
ity,  Jo.  It  hurts  a  man  worse  to  fall  from  such  a 
height  into  a  prison,  than  it  would  you  or  me,  from  a 
dray-cart.  Gad — I  pity  him;  his  worst  enemy 
could  n't  pile  up  the  agony  any  higher." 

"Pity  him!"  said  Jo,  mockingly — "a  swindling 
rascal  like  that — to  break  a  pretty  girl's  heart!" 

"  Jo,"  said  his  friend,  shutting  up  his  penknife, 
and  looking  him  steadily  in  the  eye,  "have 'you 
always  said  NO  to  the  tempting  devil  in  your  heart  ? 
Did  you  never  charge  a  stranger  more  than  the  law 


FANNY   FORD.  129 

allows  for  a  job  ?  Did  no  poor  girl  ever  curse  the 
hour  she  saw  the  light,  for  your  sake  ?" 

"  Well,  Mr.  Parson,  what  if  all  that  were  true  ?" 
asked  Jo,  with  an  abortive  attempt  at  a  laugh.  "  I 
can't  see  what  it  has  to  do  with  what  we  are  talk 
ing  about ;  hang  it." 

•'Just  this,"  answered  his  friend.  "He  who  is 
without  sin,  only,  is  to  cast  the  first  stone." 

"  0,  get  out,"  said  Jo,  cracking  his  whip  over  his 
horse's  head,  and  taking  refuge,  like  many  other 
cornered  disputants,  in  flight. 

And  Percy  Lee !  From  the  hour  in  which  he 
passed  from  the  heaven  of  Mary's  smile,  up  to  the 
present  moment,  in  which  he  paced  like  a  caged  lion 
up  and  down  his  narrow  bounds,  what  untold  ago 
nies  were  his !  Why  had  he  wrecked  happiness, 
love,  honor,  all  in  one  fatal  moment?  Why  had 
he  prostituted  his  God-given  talents  so  madly  to 
sin  ?  Let  those  answer  who  have  in  like  manner 
sinned,  and  who  have  expiated  that  sin,  by  a  life 
long  brand  upon  the  brov%  and  a  life-long  misery  in 
the  heart.  "Let  him  who  thinketh  he  standeth, 
take  heed  lest  he  fall." 

-•;•  l! 

ii-      ; 
CHAPTER     IV. 

'•  I  CAN'T  remember,"  said  Mary,  two  months  after 
Percy's  arrest,  "  I  can't  remember,"  raising  herself, 
and  laying  her  emaciated  hand  upon  her  brow. 
"  Have  I  been  sick,  mamma  ?" 


130  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"Yes,  Mary,"  replied  her  mother,  repressing  he  • 
tears  of  joy  at  the  sound  of  her  child's  voice. 

"  Where 's  Percy,  mamma  ?" 

But  before  Lucy  could  answer,  she  again  re 
lapsed  into  stupor.  Another  hour  passed — there 
was  reason  in  her  glance.  "  Mamma  ?  Percy — 
take  me  to  him" — said  Mary,  with  a  burst  of  tears, 
as  she  strove  vainly  to  rise  from  her  couch. 

"  By-and-by,  darling/'  said  her  mother,  coaxing- 
ly,  laying  her  gently  back  upon  the  pillow,  as  she 
would  an  infant,  "  by-and-by,  Mary,  when  you  are 
stronger." 

" No — now"  she  replied,  a  spasm  of  pain  con 
tracting  her  features.  "  Is  he — is  he — there  ?  How 
long  have  I  lain  here  ?" 

"  Two  months,  Mary." 

"  Two  months,"  exclaimed  poor  Mary,  in  terror, 
"  two  months.  0,  mamma,  if  you  ever  loved  me, 
if  you  want  me  to  live — take  me  to  him.  Two 
months !  He  will  think  I — 0,  dear,  mamma,  take 
me  to  Percy  I"  "  $ 

11  Yes — yes,  you  shall  go,"  said  Jacob,  "  only  don't 
cry.  I  would  shed  my  heart's  blood  to  save  you 
one  tear.  You  shall  go,  Mary,  even  to  that  curs — " 

"  Well — well,  I  won't  say  it,"  said  the  old  man, 
kissing  her  forehead ;  u  but  mind,  it  is  only  for  your 
sake — here — Lucy,  quick,  she  is  fainting." 

Another  week  passed  by,  poor  Mary  making 
superhuman  efforts  to  sit  up,  to  gain  strength  to  ac 
complish  her  heart's  wish.  Jacob  would  look  at  her 


FANNY    FORD.  131 

wasted  figure,  till  the  curse  rose  to  his  lip,  and  then 
rush  suddenly  from  her  presence. 

"  I  did  not  think  I  could  do  this,  even  for  her," 
muttered  Jacob,  on  the  morning  of  their  visit  to  the 
prison.  "  I  don't  know  what  has  come  over  me, 
Lucy — sometimes  I  wonder  if  I  am  Jacob.  I  don't 
care  for  any  thing,  so  she  don't  grieve." 

The  carriage  came — in  silence  the  sad  trio  moved 
toward  the  prison. 

•'  Can't  do  it,"  whispered  Jacob  to  Lucy,  as  they 
stopped  before  the  door ;  "  I  thought  I  could  go  in 
with  her ;  but  I  can't  do  it,  not  even  for  Mary.  The 
old  feeling  has  come  back.  I  can't  look  on  that 
man's  face  without  crushing  him  as  I  would  a 
viper ;"  and  the  old  man  left  them  in  the  turnkey's 
office,  returned  to  the  carriage,  twitched  down  the 
blinds,  and  threw  himself  back  upon  the  seat. 

Ah !  how  much  the  poor  heart  may  bear !  Mary 
sat  in  the  prison  office — still — motionless ! — but  a 
bright  spot  burned  upon  her  cheek,  and  her  tone 
was  fearful  in  its  calmness,  arid  Lucy  asked  her 
again  "  if  she  were  strong  enough  to  go  through  with 
it."  How  distinctly  the  turnkey's  clock  ticked! 
What  a  quantity  of  false  keys  and  other  implements 
which  had  been  taken  from  refractory  prisoners, 
were  on  exhibition  in  the  glass  case  1  How  the 
clerk  stared  at  them  as  they  registered  their  names 
in  the  book !  What  a  mockery  for  that  little  bird 
to  sing  in  his  cage,  over  Mary's  head  !  How  crush 
ed  and  broken-hearted  the  poor  woman  looked  in 


132  FRESH  LEAVES. 

the  black  bonnet,  on  the  bench,  waiting  to  see  her 
prodigal  son !  How  sad  his  young  wife  beside  her, 
with  the  unconscious  baby  sleeping  on  her  breast ! 
The  room  grew  smaller — the  air  grew  stifled. 

"  You  can  go  now,  ma'am,"  said  the  turnkey, 
rattling  his  keys  and  addressing  Lucy. 

"In  a  moment,  please,"  said  Lucy,  with  a  quiver 
ing  lip,  as  Mary  fell  from  her  chair : — "  Some  water 
quick,  please,  sir" — and  she  untied  the  strings  of 
Mary's  hat. 

"  Now,"  said  Mary,  after  a  pause.  And  again  the 
bright  spot  burned  upon  her  cheek — and  as  with 
faltering  step,  she  followed  the  turnkey,  the  young 
wife's  tears  fell  on  her  baby's  face,  while  she  mur 
mured.  "  God  help  her,  and  it's  my  own  heart  that 
has  the  misery,  too." 

CH APTE  R     I V. 

THE  huge  key  grated  in  the  lock.  In  the  further 
corner  of  the  cell,  crouched  Percy — his  chin  in  his 
palms,  his  eyes  bloodshot,  and  his  face  livid  as 
death. 

As  Mary  tottered  through  the  door,  Percy  raised 
his  head,  and,  with  a  stifled  groan,  fell  at  her  feet. 
Pressing  his  lips  to  the  hem  of  her  robe,  he  waved 
her  off  with  one  hand,  as  if  his  touch  were  contami 
nation.  Mary's  arms  were  thrown  about  his  neck, 
and  the  words,  "  I  love  you,"  fell  upon  his  doomed 
ear,  like  the  far-off  music  of  heaven.  When  Percy 


FANNY    FORD.  133 

would  have  spoken,  Mary  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
mouth — not  even  to  her,  should  he  humiliate  him 
self  by  confession.  And  so,  in  tears  and  silence, 
the  allotted  hour  passed — He  only,  who  made  the 
heart,  with  its  power  to  enjoy  or  suffer,  knew  with 
what  agonizing  intensity. 

"  Well,  I've  seen  a  great  many  pitiful  sights  in 
my  day,"  said  the  old  jailor,  as  the  carriage  rolled 
away  with  Mary  ;  "  but  never  any  thing  that  made 
my  eyes  water  like  the  sight  of  that  poor  young 
cretur.  Sometimes  I  think  there  ain't  no  justice  up 
above  there,  when  I  see  the  innocent  punished  that 
way  with  the  guilty.  I  hope  these  things  will  all  be 
made  square  in  the  other  world ;  I  can't  say  they 
are  clear  to  my  mind  here.  I  get  good  pay  here, 
but  I'd  rather  scull  a  raft  than  stay  here  to  have  my 
feelin's  hurt  all  the  time  this  way.  If  I  didn't. go  in 
so  strong  for  justice,  I  should  be  tempted,  when  I 
think  of  that  young  woman,  to  forget  to  lock  that 
fellow's  cell  some  night.  /  Five  years'  hard  labor !' 
'TYs  tough,  for  a  gentleman  born — well,  supposing 
he  got  out  ?  if  he  is  a  limb  of  the  devil,  as  some 
folks  say,  he  will  break  her  heart  over  again  some 
day  or  other.  It  would  be  a  shorter  agony  to  let 
her  weep  herself  dead  at  once.  God  help  her." 

CHAPTER     V. 

THE  Bluff  Hill  penitentiary  was  called  "  a  model 
prison."     A  "modern  Howard"  was  said  to  have 
12 


134  FRESH    LEAVES. 

planned  it,  and  passed  his  oracular  judgment,  ratified 
by  the  authorities  of  the  State  in  which  it  was 
located,  upon  its  cells,  prison-yards,  work-shops, 
chapel,  eating-rooms,  and  ingenious  instruments  of 
torture. 

That  the  furnaces  failed  to  keep  the  prisoners  from 
freezing  in  winter,  or  that  there  was  no  proper  ven 
tilation  in  summer,  was,  therefore,  nobody's  med 
dling  business.  Better  that  they  should  suffer,  year 
in  and  year  out,  than  that  a  flaw  should  be  publicly 
picked  in  any  scheme  set  afoot  by  the  "  modern 
Howard."  The  officers  elected  to  preside  over  Bluff 
Hill  prison,  were  as  stony  as  its  walls,  and  showed 
curious  visitors  round  the  work-shops,  amid  its  rows 
of  pallid  faces,  pointing  out  here  a  disgraced  clergy 
man,  there  a  ruined  lawyer,  yonder  a  wrecked  mer 
chant,  with  as  much  nonchalance  as  a  brutal  keeper 
would  stir  up  the  caged  beasts  in  a  menagerie,  for 
the  amusement  of  the  crowd  j  with  as  little  thought 
that  these  fallen  beings  were  men  and  brothers,  as  if 
the  Omniscient  eye  noted  no  dark  stain  of  sin,  hid 
den  from  human  sight,  on  their  souls. 

They  gave  you  leave  to  stop  as  long  as  you 
pleased,  and  watch  the  muscles  of  your  victim's  face 
work  with  emotion  under  your  gaze.  You  could 
take  your  own  time  to  speculate  upon  the  scowl  of 
defiance,  or  the  set  teeth  of  hate,  as  you  flaunted 
leisurely  past  their  prison  uniform,  in  your  silk  and 
broadcloth ;  or  you  could  stand  under  the  fair  blue 
sky,  in  the  prison-yard,  when  the  roll  beat  for  dinner, 


FANNY    FORD.  135 

and  see  them  in  file,  by  twos — guarded — march  with 
locked  step  and  folded  arms,  to  their  eating-room. 
The  beardless  boy  branded  in  your  remembering  eye 
for  life,  wherever  you  might  hereafter  meet  him,  for 
this  his  first  crime,  how  hard  soever  against  fearful 
odds,  he  might  struggle  upward  to  virtue  and  heaven. 
You  might  follow  the  sad  procession  to  thair  meals, 
where  the  fat,  comfortably-fed  chaplain  craved  a 
blessing  over  food,  from  which  the  very  dog  at  his 
door  would  have  turned  hungry  away ;  or  you  could 
go  into  the  prison  hospital,  and  view  the  accommo 
dation  (?)  for  the  sick — the  cots  so  narrow  that  a 
man  could  not  turn  in  them  j  or  you  could  investi 
gate  "  The  Douche,"  which  the  keeper  would  tell 
you,  with  a  bland  smile,  "  conquered  even  old  prison 
birds;"  or  you  could  peep  into  the  cells  (philan- 
thropically  furnished  by  this  "  modern  Howard" 
with  a  Bible),  so  dark  that  at  the  brightest  noonday 
no  prisoner  could  read  a  syllable ;  or  you  could  see 
the  row  of  coffins  standing  on  an  end  in  the  hall, 
kept  on  hand  "  for  sudden  emergencies ;"  or  any 
other  horrors  of  the  place,  for  which  your  morbid 
curiosity  was  appetized. 

Or,  if  you  had  a  human  heart  beating  within  your 
breast,  if  you  could  remember  ever  kneeling  to  ask 
forgiveness  of  your  G-od,  you  could  turn  away  soul- 
sick  from  such  unfeeling  exhibitions,  and  refuse  to 
insult  their  misery — fallen  as  they  were — by  your  cu 
rious  gaze.  You  could  remember  in  your  own  expe 
rience,  moments  of  fearful  temptation,  when  the  hot. 


136  FRESH    LEAVES. 

blood  poured  like  molten  lead  through  your  veins. 
You  could  place  in  the  balance,  as  God  does — as 
man  does  not — neglected  childhood — undisciplined 
youth.  You  could  remember,  that  at  a  kindly 
word,  whispered  in  those  felon  ears,  the  hardest 
rock  might  melt ;  and  you  could  wish  that  if  prisons 
must  be,  they  who  pass  under  their  iron  portals 
might  pass  unrecognizable  in  after  life  by  the  world's 
stony  eyes — you  could  wish  that  when  freedom's 
air  again  fanned  their  pallid  temples,  no  cursed 
scornful  finger  might  lash  to  fury  the  hydra-headed 
monster  Sin,  in  their  scarred  hearts. 

Heaven  speed  the  day  when  the  legislative  heart, 
pitiful  as  God's,  shall  temper  this  sword  of  justice 
^'.^  more  mercy. 

"  Which  is  he  ?"  asked  an  over-dressed,  chubby, 
vulgar-looking  fellow,  to  the  keeper  of  Bluff  Hill 
prison. 

"  That  tall  fellow  yonder,"  replied  the  keeper, 
"  with  the  straight  nose,  and  high  forehead — that 's 
he — see  ?  reeling  off  flax  yonder." 

"  Don't  say,"  said  the  man,  with  his  bloated  eyes 
gloating  over  Percy.  "  How  old  is  he  ?" 

"Nineteen  only,"  said  the  keeper. 

"  Humph !"  said  the  man,  loud  enough  for  Percy 
to  hear — "  Pre — co — cious;  wasn't  intended  for 
that  sort  of  work,  I  fancy,  by  the  look  of  his  hands; 
they  are  as  small  and  white  as  a  woman's.  Ask 
him  some  question,  can't  ye  ?  I  wish  I  was  keeper 


FANNY    FORD.  13*7 

here ;  I'd  like  to  break  his  spirit/'  said  Mr.  Scraggs, 
as  Percy  answered  the  keeper's  question  without 
raising  his  eyes.  "Bah!  how  these  fuzzy  bits  of 
lint  and  flax  fly  about  the  room;  my  throat  and 
nose  are  full.  I  should  think  this  would  kill  a  fellow 
off  before  long." 

"  It  does,"  said  the  keeper,  coolly. 

"And  what's  that  horrible  smell?  Faugh — it 
makes  me  sick." 

"  That  ?    Oh,  that's  the  oil  used  in  the  machinery." 

"  Why  the  fury  don't  you  ventilate,  then  ?"  asked 
Mr.  Scraggs,  thinking  more  of  his  oivn  lungs  than 
the  prisoners',  adding,  with  a  laugh,  as  he  recollected 
himself,  "  I  don't  suppose  the  Governor  of  your 
State  is  particular  on  that  p'int;  then,  with  another 
stare  at  Percy,  he  said,  "  they  say  he  seduced  old 
Ford's  daughter  before  he  stole  the  money." 

The  words  had  hardly  left  his  lips,  when,  with  a 
bound  like  a  panther,  Percy  instantly  felled  him  to 
the  earth,  the  blood  spouting  from  his  own  mouth 
and  nostrils  with  the  violence  of  his  passion. 

Scraggs  lay  for  some  hours  insensible,  though  not 
dangerously  wounded,  and  Percy  was  led  off  in  irons, 
to  reflect  on  this  new  misery  in  solitary  confinement 

4} 

CHAPTER     VI. 

"  I  STEPPED  in  to  inquire  after  poor  Mary,  this 
morning,"  said  a  neighbor  of  Lucy  Ford.  "Poor 
dear  !  she's  to  be  pitied!" 

12* 


138  FRESH    LEAVES. 

They  who  have  suffered  from  the  world's  malice, 
know  that  the  most  simple  words  may  be  made 
to  convey  an  insult,  by  the  tone  in  which  they  are 
uttered.  Lucy  Ford  was  naturally  unsuspicious,  but 
there  was  something  in  Miss  Snip's  tone  which 
grated  harshly  on  her  ear. 

"I  regret  to  say  Mary  is  no  better,"  Lucy  replied, 
with  her  usual  gentle  manner.  "  If  I  could  persuade 
her  to  take  more  nourishment,  I  should  be  glad ; 
but  she  sits  rocking  to  and  fro,  seemingly  uncon 
scious  of  every  thing." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  the  poor  dear,"  said  Miss 
Snip. 

Lucy  hesitated;  then  blushing,  as  if  she  felt 
ashamed  of  her  doubts,  she  led  the  way  to  Mary's 
room.  Every  thing  about  it  bore  marks  of  the  taste 
of  the  occupant.  There  lay  her  silent  guitar ;  there 
a  half  finished  drawing  ;  here  a  book  with  the  pearl 
folder  still  betwen  the  leaves,  where  she  and  Percy 
had  left  it.  The  beautiful  tea-rose  he  had  given  her, 
drooped  its  buds  in  the  window,  for  want  of  care, 
and  the  canary's  cage  was  muffled,  lest  its  song 
should  quicken  painful  memories.  And  there  sat 
Mary,  as  her  mother  had  said,  rocking  herself  to  and 
fro,  with  her  hands  crossed  listlessly  on  her  lap,  her 
blue-veined  temples  growing  each  day  more  start- 
lingly  transparent. 

"  Quite  heart-rending,  I  declare,"  said  Miss  Snip, 
"  and  as  if  the  poor  dear  hadn't  enough  to  bear,  just 
think  of  the  malice  of  people.  I  said  it  was  a  shame 


FANNY    FORD.  139 

and  that  of  course  nobody  would  believe  it  of  Miss 
Mary,  and  I  never  spoke  of  it,  except  to  lawyer 
Beadle's  wife,  and  one  or  two  of  our  set;  but  a 
rumor  is  a  rumor,  and  when  it  is  once  set  rolling,  it 
has  got  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill ;  but  nobody, 
I'm  sure,  that  ever  knew  Miss  Mary,  would  believe 
she  would  be  seduced  by  Percy  Lee  !" 

"  Lord-a-mercy  !  you  don't  suppose  she  heard 
me?"  exclaimed  Miss  Snip,  as  Mary  fell  forward 
upon  the  floor. 

"  Cursed  viper !"  shouted  Jacob  Ford,  emerging 
from  the  ante-room,  and  unceremoniously  ejecting 
Miss  Snip  through  the  door.  "  Cursed  viper !" 

"  That's  what  I  call  pretty  treatment,  now,"  mut 
tered  Miss  Snip,  as  she  stopped  in  the  hall,  to  settle 
her  false  curls ;  "  very  pretty  treatment — for  a  dis 
interested  act  of  neighborly  kindness.  Philanthropy 
never  is  rewarded  with  any  thing  but  cuffs  in  this 
world,  but  I  shan't  allow  it  to  discourage  me.  I 
know  that  I  have  my  mission  here  below,  whether 
I  have  the  praise  of  rneu  or  not.  All  great  reform 
ers  are  abused — that's  one  consolation.  I'll  step 
over  to  Mrs,  Bunco's  now,  and  see  if  it  is  true  that 
her  husband  takes  a  drop  too  much.  They  do  say 
so,  but  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it." 

"  Lucy,"  said  Jacob — and  the  poor  old  man's 
limbs  shook  beneath  him — "  this  must  be  the  last 
arrow  in  the  quiver.  Nothing  can  come  after  this. 
Let  her  be,  Lucy," — and  he  withdrew  his  wife's 


140  FRESH    LEAVES. 

hands,  as  she  bathed  Mary's  temples — "  let  her  be  : 
'tain't  no  use  to  rouse  her  up  to  her  misery — to  kill 
her  by  inches  this  way.  I  am  ready  to  lie  down 
side  of  her.  Lucy — I  could  n't  muster  heart  to  tell 
you,  till  a  worse  blow  came,  that  we  are  beggars. 
'Tain't  no  matter  now." 

"  God  be  merciful  1"  said  Lucy,  overwhelmed 
with  this  swift  accumulation  of  trouble. 

"  Yes,  you  may  well  say  that.  Just  enough  left 
to  keep  us  from  starving.  My  heart  has  been  with 
Aer,  you  see,"  said  Jacob,  looking  at  Mary,  "and 
my  head  has  n't  been  clear  about  things,  as  it  used 
to  be,  and  so  it  has  come  to  this.  I  wouldn't  mind 
it,  if  she  only — "  and  Jacob  dropped  his  head 
hopelessly  upon  his  breast.  Then  raising  it  again, 
and  wiping  his  eyes,  as  he  looked  at  Mary,  he  said : 
"  She  never  will  look  more  like  an  angel  than  she 
does  now.  I  thought  she  'd  live  to  close  these  old 
eyes,  and  that  my  grand-children  would  play  about 
my  knee,  but  you  see  how  it  has  gone,  Lucy." 

The  red  flag  of  the  auctioneer,  so  often  the  sig 
nal  of  distress,  floated  before  Jacob  Ford's  door. 
Strange  feet  roved  over  the  old  house ;  strange  eyes 
profaned  the  household  gods.  Careless  fingers  test 
ed  the  quality  of  Mary's  harp  and  guitar ;  and  voices 
which  in  sunnier  days  had  echoed  through  those 
halls  in  blandest  tones,  now  fell  upon  the  ear,  poi 
sonous  with  cold  malice.  When  once  the  pursuit  is 
started,  and  the  game  scented,  every  hound  joins  in 


FANNY    FORD.  141 

the  cry ,*  each  fierce  paw  must  have  its  clutch  at  the 
quivering  heart,  each  greedy  tongue  lap  up  the  ebb 
ing  life-blood.  Never  was  beauty's  crown  worn 
more  winningly,  more  unobtrusively,  less  triumph 
antly,  than  by  Mary  Ford ;  but  to  those  whom  na 
ture  had  less  favored,  it  was  the  sin  never  to  be 
forgiven ;  and  so  fair  lips  hoped  the  stories  were  not 
true  about  her,  while  they  reiterated  them  at  every 
street  corner ;  and  bosom  friends,  when  inquired  of 
as  to  their  truth,  rolled  up  their  eyes,  sighed  like  a 
pair  of  bellows,  and  with  a  deprecating  wave  of  the 
hand,  replied,  in  melancholy  tones,  "  don't  ask  me" 
thus  throwing  the  responsibility  upon  the  listener  to 
construe  it  into  little  or  much ;  pantomimic  looks 
and  gestures  not  yet  having  been  pronounced  in 
dictable  by  the  statute  book ;  others  simply  nodded 
their  heads,  in  a  mysterious  manner,  as  if  they  had 
it  at  their  charitable  option  to  send  the  whole  family 
to  perdition,  with  a  monosyllable. 

CHAPTER     VII. 

JACOB  FORD'S  new  home  was  a  little  cottage,  just 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  city ;  for  Lucy  said,  "  maybe 
the  flowers,  and  the  little  birds,  and  the  green  grass 
might  tempt  Mary  out  of  doors,  where  the  wind 
might  fan  her  pale  cheek."  It  was  beautiful  to  see 
Lucy  stifling  her  own  sorrow,  while  she  moved 
about,  performing  uncomplainingly  the  household 
drudgery.  Mary  would  sit  at  the  window,  twisting 


142  FRESH    LEAVES. 

her  carls  idly  over  her  fingers,  or  leaning  out,  as  if 
watching  for  Percy.  Sometimes  she  would  sit  on 
the  low  door-step,  when  the  stars  came  out,  with 
her  head  in  Jacob's  lap,  while  his  wrinkled  fingers 
strayed  soothingly  over  her  temples.  She  seldom 
or  never  spoke ;  did  mechanically  what  she  was  bid, 
except  that  she  drew  shuddering  back,  when  they 
would  have  led  her  across  the  threshold.  Once  she 
wept  when  Jacob  brought  her  a  violet,  which  he 
found  under  the  cottage  window.  Jacob  said, 
"  dear  heart !  why  should  a  little  blossom  make  the 
poor  thing  cry  ?"  Lucy's  womanly  heart  better 
solved  the  riddle  :  it  was  Percy's  favorite  flower. 

Their  rustic  neighbors  leaned  over  each  other's 
fences,  and  wondered  "  who  on  airth  them  Fords 
was,"  and  why  "  the  old  man  didn't  take  no  interest 
in  fixin'  his  lot.  The  trees  wanted  grafting,  the 
grass  wanted  mowing,  the  gooseberries  were  all 
over  mildew,  the  strawberries,  choked  with  weeds ; 
and  it  did  really  'pear  to  them  as  though  the  old 
fellow  must  be  'ither  a  consarned  fool,  or  an  idiot,  to 
let  things  run  out  that  way.  And  the  poor  sick 
girl,  she  looked  like  a  water-lily — so  white,  so 
bowed  down ;  why  didn't  they  put  her  into  a  shay, 
and  drive  her  out,  to  bring  a  little  color  into  hex 
waxen  cheeks  ?" 

The  thrifty  housewives  said,  "it  was  clear  to 
them  that  the  old  lady  hadn't  her  wits,  narry  more 
than  the  old  man,  for  she  left  her  clothes'-line  out 
all  night,  when  every  body  knew  that  dew  and  rain 


FANNY    FORD.  143 

would  rot  it ;  but  what  could  you  expect  from  shift 
less  city  folks  ?" 

For  all  this  the  country  people  were  kind-hearted. 
New  neighbors  did  not  grow  on  every  bush.  Top 
ics  were  scarce  in  Milltown,  and  .every  new  one 
was  hunted  down  like  a  stray  plum  in  a  boarding- 
school  pudding.  Yes,  you  might  have  gone  further, 
and  found  worse  people  than  the  Milltown-ites. 
The  little  sun-burnt  children  learned  to  loiter  on 
their  way  to  school,  "  to  pick  a  nosegay  for  the 
pretty  pale  lady."  Widow  Ellis,  under  the  hill, 
picked  her  biggest  strawberries,  and  put  them  in  a 
tempting  little  basket,  covered  with  green  leaves, 
ibr  her  curly-pated  Tommy  to  carry  to  "  poor  Miss 
Mary."  Miss  Trodchom  baked  an  extra  loaf  of  'lec 
tion-cake,  "  in  hopes  the  Fords'  daughter  might 
nibble  a  bit,  poor  thing."  And  farmer  Jolly  drop 
ped  his  whip  on  purpose,  over  Jacob's  fence,  to  get 
a  chance  to  tell  the  old  man  "  that  he  had  a  mare  as 
was  as  easy  as  a  cradle,  and  a  prettyish  side-saddle 
that  the  sick  girl  might  have,  and  welcome,  if  she 
took  a  notion."  And  Mr.  Parish,  the  minister,  came, 
but  he  could  not  make  much  of  Jacob,  who  told  him 
"  that  if  it  was  religion  to  be  willing  to  see  one's  own 
flesh  and  blood  suffer,  he  did  not  want  it." 

Poor  old  Jacob  !  Every  earthly  reed  had  broken 
beneath  him,  his  unsteady  steps  were  tottering 
toward  the  grave,  and  yet  he  threw  aside  the  only 
su^e  Staff.  He  did  not  know,  poor  old  man,  so 
gradually  had  his  heart  hardened  by  contact  with 


144  FRESH    LEAVES. 

the  world,  "  that  it  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go 
through  a  needle's  eye  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter 
the  kingdom  of  G-od."  Through  no  rift  in  the  dark 
cloud  which  shadowed  him,  could  he  see  bright 
Mercy's  sunbeam.  One  by  one  the  lights  had  gone 
out  in  his  sky,  and  still  he  groped  about,  blind  to  the 
rays  of  Bethlehem's  star.  Poor  old  Jacob  ! 

It  was  Sabbath  morning.  Jacob  stood  at  his  cot 
tage  door,  gazing  out.  Each  tiny  blade  of  grass 
bent  quivering  under  its  glistening  dew-drop.  The 
little  ground-birds  on  the  gravel  walk  were  picking 
up  their  early  breakfast ;  the  robins  were  singing 
overhead.  The  little  swallows  flew  twittering  round 
the  cottage  eaves.  The  leaves  were  rustling  with 
their  mysterious  music.  The  silver  mist  wreathed 
playfully  over  the  hill-sides,  whose  summits  lay 
bathed  in  sunshine.  Every  thing  seemed  full  of 
joyous  life.  Where  was  the  Master  hand  which 
regulated  all  that  harmony  ?  The  birds  sang — the 
leaves  danced — the  brooks  sparkled — the  bee  hum 
med — why  did  He  make  man  only  to  suffer  ?  It 
was  all  a  riddle  to  poor  Jacob.  He  took  his  staff, 
and  sauntered  away  under  the  drooping  lindens. 
The  Sabbath  bell  was  calling  the  simple  villagers  to 
church.  Across  the  meadows,  down  the  grassy 
lane — the  rosy  maiden,  the  bent  old  man,  and  the 
lisping  little  child.  Jacob  looked  after  them  as  they 
went.  Jacob  never  had  been  to  church — not  since 
he  was  a  little  child.  Sunday  he  always  posted  his 


FANNY    FORD.  145 

,4t"     .  :  '         .     '  -•**•-"  ••  ''•       - 

books,  squared  up  his  accounts,  wrote  business  let 
ters  and  the  like  of  that ;  shortening  the  day  at  both 
ends  by  getting  up  later  and  going  to  bed  earlier. 
Sunday  to  him  was  no  different  from  any  other 
day  in  the  week — except  that  he  transferred,  his 
business  from  his  counting-room  to  his  parlor ;  and 
yet — here  he  was,  leaning  on  his  staff,  before  the 
village  church,  almost  wishing  t  to  go  in  with  its 
humble  people.  He  looked  about  as  if  he  expected 
somebody  to  be  astonished  that  Jacob  Ford  should 
be  standing  so  near  a  church  door ;  but  nobody 
seemed  to  notice  it,  or  look  at  all  surprised.  By- 
and-by  he  crept  on  a  little  further,  and  seated  him 
self  on  a  stone  bench  in  the  porch,  with  his  chin 
upon  his  staff.  The  butterfly  and  the  bee  passed  in 
and  out ;  even  the  little  birds  flew  in  at  the  church 
door,  and  out  at  the  open  window ;  and  still  old  Ja 
cob  sat  there — he  could  scarcely  have  told  why. 
Now  he  hears  the  choir  sing, 

u  Jesus,  I  my  cross  have  taken, 

All  to  leave,  and  follow  Thee ; 
Naked — poor — despised — forsaken— 
Thou  from  hence  my  all  shalt  be. 

"  Though  the  world  despise  and  leave  me, 

They  have  left  my  Saviour  too; 

Human  hearts  and  hopes  deceive  me, 

Thou  art  not  like  them,  untrue." 

As  the  song  died  away,  old  Jacob's  tears  flowed 
down  his  cheeks ;  the  words  soothed  his  troubled 
spirit  like  a  mother's  lullaby. 
13 


146  FRESH  LEAVES. 

"  Come  unto  me  afl  ye  that  labor  and  are  heavy 
laden,  and  I  will  give  you  rest." 

Who  promised  that  ? 

How  did  the  minister  know  how  "  heavy  laden" 
was  Jacob's  spirit  ? 

How  did  he  know  that  for  sixty  years  he  had 
been  drawing  water  from  broken  cisterns  ?  Chas 
ing  shadows  even  to  the  grave's  brink  ? 

How  did  lie  know  that  on  that  balmy  Sabbath 
morning,  his  heart  was  aching  for  something  to  lean 
on  that  would  not  pass  away  ? 

"  Come  unto  me." 

Old  Jacob  took  his  staff,  and  tottered  out  into  the 
little  church-yard  He  did  not  know  he  was  pray 
ing,  when  his  soul  cried  out,  "  Lord  help  me  ;"  but 
still  his  lips  kept  murmuring  it,  as  he  passed  down 
the  grassy  road,  and  under  the  drooping  lindens,  for 
each  time  he  said  it,  his  heart  seemed  to  grow 
lighter ;  each  time  it  seemed  easier  for  old  Jacob  to 
"  come."  And  so  he  entered  his  low  doorway,  and 
as  he  stooped  to  kiss  his  daughter's  cheek,  the  bitter 
ness  seemed  to  have  gone  from  out  his  heart,  and  he 
felt  that  he  could  forgive  even  Percy,  for  His  sake  of 
whom  he  had  just  so  recently  craved  forgiveness. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  Lucy,  awed  by  the  strange 
expression  of  Jacob's  face,  and  laying  her  hand  ten 
derly  upon  his  arm ;  "  what  is  it,  Jacob  ?" 

"Peace!"  whispered  the  old  man,  reverently; 
"God's  peace — here  Lucy;"  and  he  laid  his  hand 
on  his  heart. 


FANNY    FORD.  147 

Lucy  took  old  Jacob's  staff  and  set  it  in  the  corner. 
Good,  kind  Lucy  !  She  did  not  think  when  she  did 
so7  that  he  would  need  it  no  more.  She  did  not 
know  when  the  sun  went  down  that  night,  that 
death's  dark  shadow  fell  across  her  cottage  thresh 
old.  She  did  not  know,  poor  Lucy,  when  she  slum 
bered  away  the  night  hours  so  peacefully  by  his 
side,  that,  leaning  on  a  surer  Staff,  old  Jacob  had 
passed  triumphantly  through  the  dark  valley ;  and 
when  at  length  the  little  twittering  sparrows  woke 
her  with  their  morning  song,  and  she  looked  into 
the  old  man's  cold,  still  face,  the  pale  lips,  though 
they  moved  not,  seemed  to  whisper,  "  Peace,  Lucy 
— God's  peace." 

CHAPTER     VIII. 

41  Is  it  possible  you  care  for  that  girl  yet,  Tom  ? 
A  rejected  lover,  too  ?  Where  's  your  spirit,  man  ? 
Pshaw — there  's  many  a  fairer  face  than  Mary 
Ford's ;  besides,  she  is  more  than  half  crazy.  Are 
•  3rou  mad,  Tom?  You  wouldn't  catch  me  sighing 
for  a  girl  who  had  cried  her  eyes  out  for  the  villainy 
of  my  rival." 

u  Curse  him  !"  said  Tom  Shaw,  striking  his  boots 
with  a  light  cane  he  held  in  his  hand  ;  "  he  is  safe 
enough,  at  any  rate,  for  some  time  to  come  j  good 
for  a  couple  more  years,  I  hope,  for  striking  that  fel 
low  in  prison.  When  he  comes  out,  if  he  ever  does, 
he  will  find  his  little  bird  in  my  nest.  Half-witted 
or  whole-witted,  it  matters  little  to  me.  I  am  j 


148  FRESH    LEAVES. 

enough  to  please  my  fancy,   and  the   girl's  face 
haunts  me." 

"  Pooh  !"  said  Jack ;  "  you  are  just  hke  a  spoiled 
child — one  toy  after  another,  the  last  one  always  the 
best.  I  know  you — you'll  throw  this  aside  in  a 
twelvemonth ;  but  marriage,  let  me  tell  you,  my  fine 
fellow,  is  a  serious  joke." 

"  Not  to  me,"  said  Tom,  "  for  the  very  good  rea 
son  that  I  consider  it  dissolved  when  the  parties 
weary — or  at  any  rate,  I  shall  act  on  that  supposi-. 
tion,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing,  you  know." 
"Not  in  law,"  said  Jack. 

':  Nonsense,"  replied  Tom ;  "  I  am  no  fool ;  trust 
me  for  steering  my  bark  clear  of  breakers.  At  any 
rate,  I  '11  marry  that  girl,  if  perdition  comes  after  it 
— were  it  only  to  spite  Percy.  How  he  will  gnash 
his  teeth  when  he  hears  of  it,  hey  ?  The  old  man  is 
dead,  and  the  old  woman  is  left  almost  penniless. 
I  '11  easily  coax  her  into  it.  In  fact,  I  mean  to  drive 
out  there  this  very  afternoon.  Mary  Ford  shall  be 
Mrs.  Tom  Shaw,  d'  ye  hear  ?" 

"  Good  day,  Pike  !  Have  n't  got  a  pitchfork  you 
can  lend  a  neighbor,  have  ye  ?  Ours  is  broke  clean 
in  two  j  I  'm  dreadful  hard  put  to  it  for  horseflesh, 
or  I  would  drive  to  the  village  and  buy  a  new  one. 
You  see  that  pesky  boy  of  mine  has  lamed  our 
mare ;  it  does  seem  to  me,  Piker  that  boys  allers 
will  be  boys — the  more  I  scold  at  him,  the  more  it 
don't  do  no  good." 


FANNY   FORD.  149 

"And  the  more  it  won't,"  said  the  good-natured 
farmer  Eice.  "  Scolding  never  does  any  good  no 
}10W — the  boy  is  good  enough  by  natur' — good  as 
you  was,  I  dare  say,  when  you  was  his  age.  I 
would  n't  give  a  cent  for  a  boy  that  hain't  no  friski- 
ness  about  him,  no  sperrit  like;  but  you  see  you 
don't  know  how  to  manage  him.  You  are  allers 
scolding,  just  as  you  say.  It's  '  John;  go  weed  those 
parsnips ;  ten  to  one,  you  careless  dog,  you  '11  pull 
up  the  parsnips  instead  of  the  weeds ;' — or,  i  John, 
go  carry  that  corn  to  mill ;  ten  to  one,  you  '11  lose  it 
out  of  the  wagon  going.'  I  tell  you,  Pike,  it  is 
enough  to  discourage  any  lad,  such  a  constant  growl 
ing  and  pecking ;  now  I  want  my  boys  to  love  me 
when  they  grow  up.  I  don't  want  them  glad  to 
see  the  old  man's  back  turned.  I  don't  want  them 
happier  any  where  than  at  their  own  home.  That's 
the  way  drunkards  and  profligates  are  made — that's 
the  way  the  village  tavern  thrives.  I  tell  you,  Pike, 
if  you  lace  up  natur  too  tight,  she  '11  bust  out  some 
where.  Better  draw  it  mild." 

"  0,  don't  talk  to  me,  neighbor,"  said  Rice,  impa 
tiently.  "  Them's  modern  notions;  thrash  children, 
I  say.  When  I  was  a  lad,  if  I  did  my  duty,  it  was 
well ;  if  I  did  n't,  I  knew  what  to  expect.  It  is 
well  enough  for  your  children  to  love  you ;  of  course 
they  oughter,  when  you  've  brought  them  into  the 
world ;  but  I  say  they  've  got  to  mind,  any  how ; 
1  obey  your  parents ;'  that's  it ;  plain  as  preaching." 

"  Yes,"  said  farmer  Rice,  "  I  believe  in  that ;  but 


150  FRESH    LEAVES. 

there's  another  verse  in  the  same  book,  that  runs 
this  way — 'Parents  provoke  not  your  children  to 
anger,  lest  they  be  discouraged.'  " 

"Well — well,"  said  Mr.  Pike,  uneasily,  "I  hate 
argufying,  as  I  do  bad  cider.  Your  neighbor.  Mr. 
Ford,  dropped  off  sudden  like,  did  n't  he  ?  What's 
the  matter  of  him  ?" 

"  Some  say  one  thing — some  another ;  but  I 
think,  neighbor,  it  was  just  here.  That  ere  old  man 
has  been  in  harness  these  sixty  years — it  was  a  sort 
of  second  natur  to  him  to  be  active.  Well,  he  was 
taken  right  out  of  the  whirl  and  hubbub  of  the  city, 
where  people  can't  hardly  stop  long  enough  to  bury 
one  another,  and  sot  right  down  in  this  quiet  place, 
where  there's  nothing  a-going  but  frogs  and  crick 
ets,  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  brood  over  his  trou 
bles.  Well,  you  see  such  a  somerset  at  his  time  o' 
life  wan't  the  thing ;  of  course  it  upsot  him.  He  'd 
lean  over  this  fence,  and  lean  over  that,  and  put  on 
his  hat,  and  take  it  off,  and  walk  a  bit,  and  sit  down 
a  bit,  and  act  just  like  an  old  rat  in  a  trap,  trying  to 
gnaw  his  way  out.  It  was  just  as  if  you  should 
pull  up  that  old  oak-tree,  that  has  grown  in  that 
spot  till  its  roots  strike  out  half  a  mile  round,  and 
set  it  out  in  some  foreign  sile ;  it  would  n't  thrive — 
of  course  not." 

"  No,"  said  Mr.  Pike,  "  I  see,  I  see — it  would  be 
just  so  with  me,  if  I  was  set  down  where  he  came 
from — that  etarnal  rumbling  and  whiz  buzz  would 
drive  me  clean  distracted.  The  last  time  I  staid  in 


FANNY    FORD.  151 

the  city  over  night,  I  thought  every  minute  the  last 
day  had  come,  there  was  such  a  tearin'  round.  But 
what's  become  of  the  old  woman  and  her  sick  darter?" 

"  She  took  it  hard — she  did — but  the  girl  is  sort 
of  image-like — don't  feel  nothing,  I  reckon.  Pretty, 
too — it's  a  nation  pity.  They  've  got  enough  left  to 
keep  them  alive,  milk  and  fresh  air,  like  the  rest  on 
us.  /  don't  want  no  better  fare.  There's  some 
talk,  so  my  old  woman  says,  about  a  fellow  who 
drives  out  here,  who  is  going  to  marry  the  girl ; — 
nothing  but  woman's  gabble,  I  guess ;  you  know  it 
they  did  n't  talk  they  would  n't  say  nothing." 

"  Fact,"  said  Mr.  Pike,  profoundly,  "  I  often  think 
on't ;  but  come,  I  can't  stay  prating  here  all  day — 
whore's  the  pitchfork  you  was  going  to  lend  me  ?" 

"  There  it  is,"  said  Mr.  Rice ;  "  and  now  remem 
ber  what  I  told  you  about  that  boy  of  y ourn  j  there's 
more  good  in  that  Zekiel,  than  you  think  for ; — re 
member  now,  a  little  oil  makes  machinery  work 
easy,  Pike." 

"  Yes,  oil  of  birch,"  said  farmer  Pike,  chuckling  at 
his  own  wit,  and  cracking  his  horse-whip  at  a  hap 
py  little  vagrant  robin,  as  he  went  through  the  gate 
and  down  the  road. 


CHAPTER     IX. 

SUMMER  had  danced  by — the  chill  wind  whistled 
through  the  trees — the  nuts  were  dropping  in  show 
ers,  and  the  leaves  rusted  beneath  the  traveler's 


152  FRESH    LEAVES. 

foot;  the  golden-rod  and  barberry  clusters  alone 
remained  to  deck  the  hedges,  and  the  striped  snake 
crawled  out  on  the  rock  to  sun  himself  only  at  mid 
day.  Widow  Ford's  cottage  looked  lonely  and  des 
olate,  stripped  of  its  leafy  screen;  but  the  squirrels 
might  be  seen  leaping  from  tree  to  tree  as  merrily  as 
if  old  Jacob  still  sat  watching  them  in  the  door- way. 
Lucy  moved  about,  sweeping,  dusting,  replenishing 
the  fire — but  the  silver  hair  glistened  on  her  tem 
ples,  and  her  step  was  slow  and  weary.  Now  and 
then  she  would  lean  against  the  mantel,  and  look  at 
Mary — and  then  wander  restlessly  into  the  little 
bedroom — then,  back  again  to  the  mantel. 

"  You  still  think  it  best  to  consummate  this  mar 
riage  ?"  said  the  clergyman  to  Lucy,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Only  that  I  would  not  leave  her  alone,"  said 
Lucy,  tremulously.  "  I  shall  soon  be  in  the  church 
yard  by  the  side  of  Jacob.  Mr.  Shaw  knows  all — 
he  loves  her,  and  wishes  to  make  her  his  wife.  I 
believe  he  will  be  kind  to  her.  As  for  Mary,  poor 
thing,  you  see  how  it  is,"  and  she  glanced  at  her 
daughter,  who  sat  with  locked  fingers — her  long 
lashes  sweeping  her  colorless  cheek.  One  might 
have  taken  her  for  some  beautiful  statue,  with  those 
faultless  marble  features,  and  that  motionless  atti 
tude. 

Mr.  Parish  sighed,  as  he  looked  at  Mary ;  but  he 
had  little  time  to  discuss  matters,  if  that  were  his 
intention,  for  the  sound  of  approaching  carriage- 
wheels  announced  Mr.  Shaw. 


FANNY   FORD.  153 

"  At  twelve,  then,  to-morrow,"  said  he,  as  he  took 
up  his  hat,  "if  you  are  of  the  same  mind,  I  will 
perform  the  ceremony  as  you  desire." 

Mr.  Parish  walked  home  in  a  very  thoughtful  mood. 
Through  his  acquaintances  in  the  city,  he  had  learn 
ed  the  history  of  the  family.  He  knew  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  shadow  which  had  fallen  across 
their  hearth-stone.  He  saw  that  it  was  true,  as 
Lucy  had  said,  that  her  own  strength  was  fast  fail 
ing;  still  it  seemed  to  him  sacrilege  to  bestow 
Mary's  hand  in  marriage,  when  her  heart  was  so 
benumbed  and  dead.  He  would  have  offered  her  a 
shelter  in  his  own  house,  had  he  been  master  of  it ; 
but,  unfortunately,  he  had  married  a  lady  who  lost 
no  opportunity  to  remind  him  that  her  dowry  of 
twenty  thousand  dollars  was  payment  in  full  for  the 
total  abnegation  of  his  free  will.  This  was  not  the 
first  occasion  on  which  the  clanking  of  this  gentle 
man's  golden  fetters  had  sounded  unmusically  in  his 
reverend  ears ;  in  truth,  he  would  much  have  pre 
ferred  his  liberty,  even  at-  the  expense  of  eking  out 
a  small  salary  by  farming,  as  did  the  neighboring 
country  clergy.  Mrs.  Parish  lost  no  opportunity  to 
remind  her  husband  that  he  was  sold,  by  such  pleas 
ant  remarks  as  the  following :  That  it  was  time  her 
house  was  re-painted,  or  her  barn  re-roofed,  or  her 
carry-all  re-cushioned.  When  she  felt  unusuaUy 
hymeneal,  she  would  say,  "  Mr.  Parish,  you  can  use 
my  horses  to-day,  if  you  will  drive  carefully.  That 
she  invariably  and  sweetly  deferred  to  her  husband's 


154  FRESH    LEAVES. 

opinion  in  company,  was  no  proof  of  the  absence 
of  a  private  conjugal  understanding,  that  he  was  to 
consider  himself  merely  her  echo. 

Little  did  his  brother  clergymen  who  exchanged 
with  him  in  their  thread-bare  suits  of  black,  dream 
of  the  price  at  which  his  pleasant  parsonage  sur 
roundings  were  purchased.  Little  did  they  dream, 
when  they  innocently  brought  along  their  wives  and 
babies  on  such  occasions,  the  suffering  it  entailed  on 
"  brother  Parish." 

No,  poor  simple  souls,  they  went  home  charmed 
with  the  hospitality  of  their  host  and  hostess, 
charmed  with  their  conjugal  happiness,  and  marvel 
ing  as  they  returned  to  their  own  houses,  what 
made  their  rooms  seem  so  much  smaller,  and  their 
fare  so  much  more  frugal  than  before.  Had  they 
been  clairvoyantly  endowed,  they  might  have  seen 
brother  Parish,  after  he  had  smilingly  bowed  them 
dowTi  the  nicely  rolled  gravel  walk  to  their  wagons, 
return  meekly  to  the  parlor,  to  be  reminded  for  the 
hundredth  time,  by  Mrs.  Parish,  of  that  twenty 
thousand  dollar  obligation.  Well  might  personal 
feelings  come  in,  to  strengthen  his  ministerial  scru 
ples,  lest  he  should  join  carelessly  in  wedlock,  hands 
which  death  only  could  unclasp. 

"  He  oughter  be  ashamed  of  hisself  marrying  that 
poor  crazed  thing,  even  if  the  old  lady  is  willing," 
said  farmer  Jones'  wife,  as  Tom  Shaw's  smiling  face 
peered  out  of  the  carriage  window,  on  his  wedding 


F ANN Y    FORD.  155 

day.  "  It  hardens  the  heart  awful  to  live  in  the 
city ;  riches  can't  make  that  poor  cretur  happy  j  a 
pebble  stun  and  a  twenty  dollar  piece,  are  all  one 
to  her.  Now  my  daughter  Louizy  is  no  beauty j 
she  is  clumsy  and  freckled,  and  bi  own  as  a  butter 
nut  ;  but  she  is  too  fair  in  my  eyes,  to  be  sold  that 
way.  I  wish  I  knew  what  crazed  that  Mary  Ford. 
Ah — here  comes  parson  Parish ;  maybe  I  '11  get  it 
out  of  him." 

"  Good  day,  sir — met  the  bridal  carriage,  I  sup 
pose,  on  the  road — queer  wedding  that,  of  Miss 
Mary's.  Is  it  true,  that  Squire  Ford's  house  took 
fire,  and  Miss  Mary  lost  her  wits  by  the  fright?" 

"  I  never  heard  of  it,"  replied  the  parson — taking 
the  Maltese  cat  in  his  lap,  and  manipulating  her 
slate-colored  back. 

Mrs.  Jones  might  have  added,  "Nor  I  either,"  but 
nothing  daunted,  she  tried  another  question. 

ki  Scarlet  fever,  p'rhaps,  parson?  that  allers- leaves 
suthing  behind  it,  most  commonly.  My  George 
would  have  been  left  blind,  likely,  if  he  hadn't  been 
left  deaf.  They  say  it  was  scarlet  fever  that  done 
it." 

"  Do  they  ?"  asked  the  parson. 

"  Confound  it,"  thought  Mrs.  Jones ;  "  I'm  sure 
the  man  knows,  for  he  was  very  thick  there  at  the 
cottage.  I'll  see  if  my  gooseberry  wine  won't  loosen 
his  tongue  a  little ;"  and  she  handed  the  minister  a 
glass. 

"  Sometimes  I've  wondered,  parson,  what  made 


156  FRESH    LEAVES. 

old  Ford  walk  round  so  like  an  unquiet  sperrit.  He, 
didn't  do  nothing  he  hadn't  oughter,  did  he  ?  It 
wasn't  that  that  crazed  Miss  Mary,  I  s'pose  ?  That 
old  man  got  up  and  sat  down  fifty  times  a  minute." 

"So  I  have  heard,"  answered  the  impenetrable 
parson,  sipping  his  wine. 

"  She  wasn't  crossed  in  love  nor  nothing,  was 
she  ?"  asked  the  persevering  querist ;  "  that  some 
time  plays  witch  work  with  a  woman." 

"  Oh,  that  reminds  me,"  said  the  parson.  u  I  hear 
Zekiel  Jones  is  engaged  to  your  Louisa." 

"My  Louizy!"  screamed  Mrs.  Jones,  walking 
Straight  into  the  trap  j  "  My  Louizy  engaged  to 
Zekiel  Jones !  a  fellow  who  don't  know  a  hoe- 
handle  from  a  hay-cutter.  I  guess  there'll  be  a  tor- 
nady  in  this  house  afore  that  marriage  comes  off.  I 
do  wish  people  would  mind  their  own  business,  and 
not  meddle  with  what  don't  consarn  'em.  Now 
who  fold  you  that,  parson  ?" 

"  Well,  I  really  don't  remember,"  replied  the  min 
ister  ;  "  but  you  know  it  matters  little,  so  there's  no 
truth  in  it,"  and  dexterously  escaping  through  the 
dust  he  had  raised,  he  bowed  himself  down  the 
garden  walk ;  while  Mrs.  Jones  stood  with  her  arms 
a-kimbo,  in  the  doorway,  ejaculating :  "  Zekiel  Jones 
and  my  Louizy — a  fellow  who  goes  to  sleep  in  the 
middle  of  the  day  in  haying  time,  and  a  gal  who 
can  churn  forty  pounds  of  butter  a  day  1  Gunpow 
der  and  milk !  I  guess  so." 


FANNY    FORD.  157 


CHAPTER     X. 

'"How  shall,  we  manage  to  kill  time  to-day, 
Jack?"  asked  Tom  Shaw;  "race-course — billiards 
—club — pistol  gallery  ?" 

"  Kill  time !  You— a  bridegroom  of  six  months  ! 
Well,  you  can't  say  you  weren't  warned.  You 
remember  I  told  you  you  would  soon  weary  of 
your  new  toy.  A  six-months'  bridegroom!"  and 
Tom  laughed  merrily. 

"  Long  enough  to  make  love  to  a  statue,  were  it 
ever  so  faultless/'  replied  Tom,  with  a  yawn.  "  I'm 
bored  to  death,  Jack,  and  I  don't  care  who  knows 
it.  My  mother-in-law,  who,  to  do  her  justice,  is 
clever  enough,  strolls  over  the  house  like  a  walking 
tomb-stone.  My  wife  is  as  lifeless  as  if  half  the 
women  in  town  were  not  dying  for  me.  It's  cursed 
monotonous ;  hang  me  if  I'm  not  sick  of  it." 

<£  Does  your  wife  never  speak  to  you  ?"  asked 
Jack. 

"  Never,"  said  Tom ;  "  there  she  sits  in  her  chair, 
playing  with  her  fingers,  or  else  at  the  window, 
looking  this  way,  and  that,  as  if  she  were  expecting 
somebody ;  when  she  does  so,  it  seems  to  worry 
the  old  lady,  who  looks  nervously  at  me,  and  tries  to 
coax  her  away — the  Lord  only  knows  why;  and 
two  or  three  times  I  have  seen  her  coax  away  a 
faded  flower  that  Mary  has  a  fancy  for  holding  be 
tween  her  fingers.  It's  all  Greek  to  me.  Confound 
14 


158  FRESH    LEAVES. 

it,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  in  a  nest  of  lunatics.  It  makes 
me  as  nervous  as  the  devil.  Come,  let's  be  off. 
What  has  become  of  Susy,  the  little  ballet-girl? 
Did  she  take  my  marriage  to  heart  ?" 

"  Not  she,  the  delicious  little  monkey  ;  she  tossed 
her  pretty  head,  and  said  with  an  arch  smile: 
'  Mark  what  I  say :  he'll  be  back  to  me  in  six 
months.'  " 

"  Pretty  prophet !"  replied  Tom. 

The  two  young  men  locked  arms  and  sauntered 
down  the  crowded  street,  whining  their  cigars; 
now  attracted  by  some  brilliant  shop-window,  now 
bandying  jests  with  those  miserable  women,  who, 
but  for  just  such  as  they,  might  have  lifted  their 
womanly  brows  to  the  starry  sky — pure  as  when 
first  kissed  by  a  mother's  loving  lips.  Pale  seam 
stresses  glided  by,  unguarded,  save  by  Him  who 
noticeth  the  sparrow's  fall.  Young  men  of  their 
own  age,  weary  of  the  slowly  accumulating  gains  of 
honest  toil,  looked  enviously  upon  their  delicately 
kidded  hands,  fine  apparel,  and  care-for-naught  air. 
Passing,  at  length,  the  long  line  of  carriages  in  front  of 
the  opera  house,  they  disappeared  under  the  lighted 
vestibule,  and  took  possession  of  one  of  the  boxes. 

Fair  young  girls  were  there,  unveiling  to  the 
libidinous  eye,  at  Fashion's  bidding,  charms  of 
which  they  should  have  been  chary  to  the  moon. 
Faded  belles  throwing  out  bait  at  which  nobody 
even  nibbled.  Married  men  groaned,  looked  at  their 
watches,  and  leaning  book  in  their  seats,  computed 


FANNY    FORD.  159 

the  rise  and  fall  of  stocks ;  married  women  gazed 
anxiously  around  to  see  if  their  laces,  diamonds,  or 
cashmeres  were  eclipsed  by  their  neighbors'.  Ev 
ery  body  was  bored  to  death,  stifled  by  the  heat, 
blinded,  by  the  gas,  and  scientifically  inappreciative 
of  the  music,  but  every  body  willing  to  endure  ten 
times  as  much,  rather  than  not  be  "in  the  fashion." 
The  moon,  to  be  sure,  silvered  the  pretty  fountain  in 
the  park,  close  by,  and  the  cool,  sweet  evening 
breeze  played  through  the  blossoming  trees  j  but 
the  "  working  people"  were  stretehed  upon  its 
benches ;  the  poor  man's  child  laid  his  soft  cheek  to 
the  cool  grass;  the  ragged  little  urchin,  escaping 
from  the  stifled  air  of  the  noisome  lane,  threw  up 
his  brimless  hat  in  the  gravel  walk.  The  parks 
were  plebeian,  opera  boxes  were  beyond  the  reach 
of  i:  the  vulgar." 

But  look !  Now  the  audience  show  signs  of  ani 
mation.  All  is  astir.  See,  the  ballet!  A  fleecy 
cloud  sails  in,  enveloping  u  Susy."  Susy,  the  favor 
ite  pro  tern. — Susy,  with  her  jetty  locks,  creamy 
skin,  and  dimpled  shoulders.  Susy,  with  her  pretty 
ankles  and  rounded  waist,  Susy,  with  her  jeweled 
arms  and  rose-banded  hair.  Susy,  with  her  rounded 
bosom  and  twinkling  feet.  Young  men  and  old 
men  level  their  glasses  in  breathless  admiration,  as 
Susy  languishingly  twirls,  and  tip-toes,  and  pirou 
ettes.  Young  girls,  who  have  long  since  ceased 
blushing  at  such  exhibitions,  wish,  for  the  nonce, 
that  they  w^ere  Susy,  as  bouquets  and  diamond 


160  FRESH    LEAVES. 

rings  are  thrown  upon  the  stage.  Tom  Shaw's 
eyes  sparkle,  and  relieving  his  enthusiasm  by  some 
expressive  expletives,  he  leaves  Jack  for  a  behind- 
the-scene  ttte-d-tete  with  the  danseuse. 


^    .    CHAPTER   xi. 

"  Day  dawned — within  a  curtained  room, 
Filled  to  faintness  with  perfume, 
A  lady  lay  at  point  of  doom. 
Morn  broke — an  infant  saw  the  light, 
But  for  the  lady,  fair  and  bright, 
She  slumbered  in  undreaming  night." 

LIFE  and  death  had  passed  each  other  on  the 
threshold !  Lucy  Ford's  tears  were  the  baptism 
of  Mary's  motherless  babe.  The  poor  weary  heart, 
whose  pulse  had  beat  so  unevenly  above  it,  had 
ceased  its  flutterings.  It  was  nothing  new  to  see 
Mary  lie  with  marble  face,  folded  hands,  and  softly- 
fringed,  closed  eyes.  But,  sometimes,  the  thin  hand 
had  been  kindly  outstretched  toward  Lucy  •  some 
times,  the  glossy  head  had  raised  itself,  and  leaned 
tenderly  on  the  maternal  bosom ;  sometimes,  the 'blue 
eye  had  lingered  lovingly  on  her  wrinkled  face. 
Small  comfort,  God  knows — and  yet  it  was  much 
to  poor  Lucy.  She  looked  at  the  little  gasping, 
helpless  thing  before  her — a  tenant  already  for  her 
rifled  heart — a  new  claimant  for  her  love  and  care. 
Oh,  how  could  she  else  but  welcome  it  ?  With  soft 
folds  she  wrapped  its  fragile  limbs,  with  motherly 


FANNY   FORD.  161 

care  she  soothed  it  on  her  sunken  breast,  and  with  a 
prayer  to  God,  as  she  pressed  her  lips  to  Mary's 
brow,  she  promised  Death  to  be  faithful  to  the  trust 
of  Life. 

Days  and  nights — weeks,  months  and  years  came 
and  went,  blanching  the  prisoner's  lip  and  cheek, 
but  failing  to  subdue  a  love  which  yet  had  not 
saved  him  from  incurring  a  doom  so  terrible.  Had 
Mary  forgotten  him  ?  for,  since  that  dreadful, 
happy  day,  when  he  clasped  her  in  his  cell,  he  had 
heard  nothing  save  the  damning  sneer  of  the  villain 
Scraggs.  Perhaps  she  was  dead — and  his  bloodless 
lip  quivered  at  the  thought.  Nay — worse — perhaps 
they  might  have  married  her,  in  her  despair,  to  an 
other.  Percy  tossed  on  his  narrow  cot  in  agony. 

He  even  welcomed  the  day-light,  which  recalled 
him  to  his  task.  Oh,  those  long,  long  nights,  when 
locked  in  his  cell,  remorse  kept  him  silent  company  ! 
or  worse,  the  dreary,  idle  Sunday,  when  taken  out 
once  to  chapel,  then  remanded  back  to  his  dark  cell, 
he  lay  thinking  of  the  pleasant  Sabbaths  he  had 
passed  with  Mary,  in  the  little  parlor,  on  the  sofa  by 
her  side.  He  could  see  her  now,  in  the  pretty  blue 
dress  she  wore  to  please  him  ;  the  ring  he  had  given 
her,  sparkling  on  her  white  hand — her  glossy  hair, 
worn  the  very  way  he  liked  to  see  it,  the  book 
opened  at  the  passage  he  liked  best,  the  little  flower 
pressed  between  its  leaves,  because  he  gave  it.  Then 
the  little  arbor  in  the  garden — where  they  used  to 
14* 


162  FRESH    LEAVES. 

sit  the  pleasant  Sabbath  evenings — the  song  Mary 
sang  him  there — with  her  head  upon  his  breast.  Oh, 
happiness — oh,  misery  ! 

Percy  knew  it  was  summer,  for  as  he  passed 
through  the  prison-yard  he  saw  that  the  green  blades 
of  grass  were  struggling  up  between  the  flag-stones, 
and  now  and  then,  he  heard  the  chirp  of  a  passing 
bird.  The  sky,  too,  was  softly  blue,  and  the  breeze 
had  been  where  clover  and  daisies  had  bloomed,  and 
rifled  their  sweetness. 

Percy  looked  down  on  his  shrunken  limbs,  clad 
in  his  felon  garb — then  on  his  toil-worn  hands.  He 
passed  them  slowly  over  his  shaven  crown.  Merci 
ful  Heaven!  he — Percy  Lee — Mary's  lover!  Fool 
—  thrice-accursed  fool ;  life — liberty — happiness- 
love — all  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  tempting  fiend — for 
this  !  No  tears  relieved  the  fierce  fire,  which  seem 
ed  consuming  his  heart  and  brain.  How  long  could 
he  bear  this  ?  Was  his  cell  to  be  his  grave  ?  Once, 
seized  with  a  sudden  illness,  he  had  been  taken  to 
the  prison  hospital,  where  the  doctor  tried  pleasant 
little  experiments  on  the  subjects  who  came  under 
his  notice.  Around  him  were  poor  wretches,  groan 
ing  under  every  phase  of  bodily  and  mental  discom 
fort  Wow  roused  out  of  some  Heaven-sent  slumber, 
when  it  suited  the  doctor  to  show  them  to  visitors ; 
or  to  descant  upon  the  commencement  and  probable 
duration  of  their  disease,  coupled  with  accounts  of 
patients  who  had  died  in  those  beds,  and  whom  he 
could  have  cured  under  different  circumstances. 


FANNY   FORD.  1C3 

It  was  here  that  Percy  shed  the  only  tears  which 
had  moistened  his  eyes  since  his  incarceration.  A 
party  of  visitors  were  passing  through  the  wards, 
listening  to  the  doctor's  egotistical  details,  and  peep 
ing  into  the  different  cots.  A  sweet  little  girl  had 
strayed  away  from  the  rest  of  her  party,  and  was 
making  her  tour  of  childish  observation  alone.  Her 
eye  fell  upon  Percy.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  gaz 
ing  at  him  with  the  intensest  pity  written  on  her 
sweet  face.  Then  gliding  up  to  his  side,  she  droop 
ed  her  bright  curls  over  his  pillow,  and  placing  a 
flower  between  his  fingers,  she  whispered,  "  I  '11 
pray  to  G-od  to  make  you  well  and  let  you  go  home," 

"Mary!  come  here,"  said  a  shrill  female  voice, 
recalling  the  child ;  "  don't  you  know  that  is  a  hor 
rid  bad  man  !  he  might  kill  you." 

"  No,  he  is  not,"  said  the  little  cre'ature,  con 
fidently,  with  a  piteous  glance  of  her  soft,  blue  eyes 
at  Percy ;  "no,  he  is  not."  ^ 

"  What  makes  you  think  so  ?"  ask^d  one  of  the 
party. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  the  child ;  "  something 
tells  me  so — here ;"  and  sfye  laid  her  hand  on  her 
breast. 

"  Won't  you  please  let  him  go  home  ?"  asked  she 
of  the  doctor. 

"Home? 

As  the  sweet  pleader  passed  out,  the  room  seemed 
to  grow  suddenly  dark,  and  Percy  turned  his  face 
to  his  pillow,  and  wept  aloud. 


164:  FRESH    LEAVES. 

Heavenly  childhood  !  that  the  world  should  ever 
chill  thy  Christ-like  heart.  That  scorn  should  up 
root  pity.  That  suspicion  should  stifle  love.  That 
selfishness  should  dry  up  thy  tears,  and  avarice  lock 
thine  open  palm,  with  its  vice-like  grasp  !  Oh,  weep 
not  ye  who  straighten  childhood  for  the  grave;  over 
whose  household  idols  the  green  grass  waves ;  hea 
ven's  bright  rain  showers  and  spring  flowers  bloom. 
Let  the  bird  soar,  while  his  song  is  sweetest,  before 
one  stain  soil  his  plumage,  or  with  maimed  wing  he 
flutter  helplessly.  Let  him  soar.  The  cloud  which 
hides  him  from  thy  straining  eye,  doth  it  not  hide 
him  from  the  archer  ? 

CHAPTER     XII. 

"  THE  top  o'  the  mornin'  to  yez,  Bridget,"  said  Pat, 
poking  his  head  into  the  kitchen.  "  Is  the  ould 
lady  up  yet  ?  Sorry  a  plight  masther  was  in  the 
night — dhrunk  as  a  baste — and  he  cares  no  more  for 
his  own  flesh  and  blood  than  I  do  for  a  Protestant 
— bad  'cess  to  'em." 

"  Thrue  for  you,  Patrick,  and  may  I  niver  con 
fess  again  to  the  praste,  if  his  light  o'  love  is  not 
misthress  here  before  long;  he  is  as  bould-faced 
about  it  as  if  poor  Misthress  Mary  wasn't  fresh  under 
the  sod.  God  rest  her  sowl." 

Bridget's  prediction  was  not  long  being  verified. 
Upholsterers  were  soon  in  attendance,  re-modeling 
and  re-furnishing  poor  Mary's  apartments,  of  which 


FANNF    FORD.  165 

the  pretty  danseuse  shortly  took  unblushing  and  tri 
umphant  possession.  It  was  understood  in  the 
house,  that  her  will  was  to  be  law;  and  implicit 
obedience  to  the  same  the  surest  passport  to  head 
quarters.  Poor  Lucy,  willing  to  bear  any  thing 
rather  than  separation  from  the  child — chased  from 
one  room  to  another — finally  took  refuge  with  her 
charge  in  the  attic,  whither  poor  Mary's  portrait  had 
long  since  been  banished.  For  the  little  Fanny's 
sake,  she  patiently  endured  every  humiliation ;  she 
heeded  not  the  careless  insolence  of  the  new  regime 
of  servants.  She  bore  every  caprice  of  the  tyranni 
cal  little  danseuse.  Patiently  her  feeble  limbs  tot 
tered  up  stairs  and  down,  performing  the  offices  of 
nurse  and  servant  to  her  grandchild ;  patiently  she 
soothed  it  when  ill,  or  amused  it  when  fretful ;  un 
complainingly  she  bore  from  her  son-in-law  his 
maudling  curses,  when  they  passed  each  other  on 
the  stairs,  or  in  the  hall.  Every  thing — any  thing, 
but  separation  from  Mary's  child,  which  nestled 
every  day  closer  to  her  heart ;  and  whose  soft  eyes 
and  glossy  curls  reminded  her  every  day  more  forci 
bly  of  her  lost  daughter.  Every  day  she  prayed  to 
God  to  spare  the  withered  trunk  till  the  vine  which 
clambered  round  it  should  gather  strength  to  brave 
the  winds  and  storms.  Fanny  slept  securely  on  her 
breast,  while  the  bacchanalian  song  resounded 
through  the  house,  and  obscene  jests,  and  curses 
loud  and  deep,  made  night  hideous.  And  when 
the  moonbeans  penetrated  the  little  window,  and. 


166  FRESH    LEAVES. 

falling  upon  Mary's  portrait,  revealed  her  in  all  her 
beauty,  before  the  shadow  had  fallen  on  her  fair 
brow,  or  dimmed  her  lustrous  eyes,  or  robbed  that 
dimpled  mouth  of  its  sunny  smile,  poor  Lucy  would 
nestle  closer  to  little  Fanny,  and  pray  God  that  so 
bitter  a  cup  might  pass  from  her. 

Dear  little  Fanny !  with  her  plump  little  arms 
thrown  carelessly  over  her  curly  head,  her  pearly 
teeth  just  gleaming  through  her  parted  lips,  as  if 
some  kind  angel  even  then  were  promising  her  ex 
emption  from  such  a  doom. 

Time  crept  on,  blanching  Lucy's  cheek  to  deadly 
paleness,  tinting  Fanny's  with  a  lovelier  rose  ;  thin 
ning  Lucy's  silver  hair,  piling  the  golden  clusters 
round  Fanny's  ivory  brow ;  bending  Lucy's  shrunk 
en  limbs,  rounding  Fanny's  into  symmetry  and 
grace. 

True,  the  child  never  left  the  attic  ;  but  whafc 
place,  how  circumscribed  soever,  will  not  Love 
beautify  and  brighten  ?  True,  "  mamma's"  pic 
tured  semblance  responded  not  to  the  little  up 
turned  face  and  lisping  lips,  but  who  shall  say  that 
age  and  infancy  were  the  only  tenants  of  that  lonely 
room? 

Fanny  knew  that  she  had  a  "  papa"  somewhere 
in  the  house,  but  "papa"  was  always  "sick,"  or 
"  busy,"  so  grandmamma  said ;  that  must  be  the 
reason  why  he  never  came  up  to  see  his  little  girl. 
Sometimes  Fanny  amused  herself  by  climbing  up  to 
the  little  window,  overlooking  the  square  where  a 


FANNY   FORD.  167 

silvery  fountain  tossed  its  sparkling  diamonds  to  the 
sun,  who  turned  them  all  sorts  of  pretty  colors,  and 
sent  them  quivering  back  again.  Little  Fanny  liked 
that !  Then  she  saw  little  children  playing  round 
the  fountain,  sailing  their  tiny  boats  on  its  bosom, 
and  clapping  their  hands  gleefully  when  they  rode 
safely  into  port.  Great  shaggy  Newfoundland  dogs, 
too,  jumped  into  the  water,  and  swam,  with  their 
black  noses  just  above  the  surface,  and  ever  and 
anon  sprang  out  upon  the  mossy  bank,  shaking  their 
shaggy  coats  upon  the  more  dainty  ones  of  mam 
ma's  little  pets,  quite  regardless  of  lace,  silk,  or  rib 
bon.  It  was  a  pretty  sight,  and  little  Fanny  wanted 
to  go  to  the  fountain  too ;  but  grandmamma  was  so 
feeble,  and  she  had  so  much  running  to  do  up  and 
down  stairs,  that  she  had  no  strength  left  to  walk; 
and  then  grandmamma  had  to  make  all  Fanny's  little 
dresses,  and  keep  them  tidy  and  nice ;  and  by  the 
time  the  sun  moved  off  of  mamma's  picture  in  the 
afternoon,  she  was  quite  ready  to  go  to  bed  with 
little  Fanny. 

Poor  old  grandmamma !  Fanny  handed  her  her 
spectacles,  and  a  cricket  to  put  her  poor  tired  feet 
upon,  and  picked  up  the  spools  of  cotton  when  they 
rolled  upon  the  floor,  and  learned  too  to  thread  her 
needles  quite  nicely,  for  grandmamma's  eyes  were 
getting  dim ;  and  sometimes  Fanny  would  try  to 
make  the  bed,  but  her  hand  was  so  tiny  that  she 
could  not  even  cover  one  of  the  small  roses  of  its 
patch-work  quilt.  Dear  little  thing!  He  who 


168  FRESH    LEAVES. 

blessed  little  children,  recorded  of  her,  "  She  hath 
done  what  she  could." 

One  day  Fanny  heard  a  great  noise — a  great 
bumping  and  tumbling,  as  if  some  heavy  body  were 
falling  down  the  stairs.  Then  she  heard  a  deep 
groan — and  then  such  a  shriek  !  If  she  lived  to  be 
as  old  as  grandma,  that  shriek  would  never  go  out 
of  her  ears ;  then  there  was  a  great  running  to  and 
fro,  Patrick  and  Bridget  wrung  their  hands,  "and 
said  ochone  !  ochone  I  and  then  grandmamma's  face 
grew  very  white,  as  she  took  Fanny  by  the  hand 
and  hurried  down  stairs ;  and  when  they  got  into 
the  lower  entry,  there  lay  a  gentleman  very  still  on 
the  floor.  A  beautiful  lady  was  kneeling  on  the 
floor  beside  him,  chafing  his  temples — but  it  was  of 
no  use  •  feeling  of  his  pulse — but  it  was  quite  still. 
Then  the  beautiful  lady  shrieked  again — oh,  so 
dreadfully!  and  then  she  fell  beside  him  like  one 
dead. 

Fanny's  grandma  whispered  to  her,  that  the  gen 
tleman  "  was  her  papa,"  and  that  he  had  fallen  down 
stairs  and  broken  his  neck — grandma  did  not  say 
that  he  was  drunk  when  he  did  it.  Fanny  crept  up 
to  him,  for  she  had  wanted  so  much  to  see  her  papa 
— so  she  put  her  little  rosy  face  close  to  his,  and 
said,  "  Wake  up,  please,  papa,  and  see  me."  But  he 
did  not  open  his  eyes  at  all ;  then  she  put  her  hand 
on  his  face,  and  then  she  seemed  frightened — her 
little  lip  quivered,  and  she  clung  to  her  grandmoth- 


FANNY    FORD.  169 

er's  dress — then  some  men  came  and  carried  papa 
up  stairs,  and  the  maid-servants  laid  the  beautiful 
lady  on  the  sofa,  in  the  parlor ;  and  she  and  grand 
ma  went  back  up  into  the  attic — and  all  that  day, 
grandma  did  not  seem  to  see  mamma's  picture  at 
all ;  and  when  Fanny  came  up  to  her,  she  wept  and 
said,  "  God  help  you — my  poor  lamb." 

CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE  bell  sounded  at  Bluff  Hill  Prison,  to  call  the 
prisoners  to  their  tasks.  They  passed  out  from 
their  cells  and  crossed,  two  by  two,  the  prison-yard 
to  their  workshops.  Percy  and  a  stout  negro  were 
the  last  couple  in  the  file.  Just  as  they  were  about 
passing  in,  the  African,  who  had  received  the  pun 
ishment  of  the  douche  the  day  previous,  for  dilatori- 
ness  at  his  task,  sprang  upon  the  officer  in  waiting, 
and  seized  him  by  the  throat.  Percy,  whose  pugi 
listic  science  was  a  match  for  the  African's  muscle, 
grappled  with  and  secured  him  in  an  instant,  re 
ceiving,  as  he  did  so,  a  severe  bite  from  the  fellow's 
teeth,  in  his  left  shoulder.  The  negro  was  hand 
cuffed,  and  Percy  carried  to  the  hospital,  to  have  his 
wound  dressed.  The  officer,  in  the  flush  of  his  grat 
itude,  assured  him,  as  he  left,  that  the  case  should 
be  laid  before  the  governor,  and  would  undoubtedly 
result  in  his  pardon. 

Percy's  eye  brightened,  as  he  bowed  his  head  in 
reply,  but  in  truth  he  took  no  credit  for  the  deed  • 
15 


170  FRESH    LEAVES. 

it  was  only  following  an  irresistible  impulse  to  save 
the  life  of  a  fellow-creature. 

Liberty  I  it  would  be  sweet !  But,  pshaw !  why 
dream  of  it?  Men  were  proverbially  ungrateful. 
Ten  to  one,  the  officer  would  never  think  of  his 
promise  again ;  or  if  he  did,  the  governor  would  lay 
it  on  the  table,  to  be  indefinitely  postponed,  or  for 
gotten,  or  rejected,  with  a  thousand  other  trouble 
some  applications.  No — suns  would  rise  and  set 
just  as  they  had  done,  and  time  for  him  would  be 
marked  only  by  the  prison-bell,  with  its  clanging 
snmmons  to  labor.  He  should  see,  every  day,  as  he 
had  done,  the  poor  lame  prisoner  sunning  himself  in 
his  favorite  corner  in  the  yard — he  should  see  the 
prisoners'  mattresses,  hung  on  the  rails  to  ah- — he 
should  see  the  gleam  of  the  blacksmith's  forge,  and 
hear  the  stroke  of  the  stonecutter's  hammer;  the 
shuttle  would  fly,  and  the  wheel  turn  round.  He 
should  sit  down  to  his  wooden  plate,  his  square  bit 
of  salt  meat,  and  his  one  potato,  and  drink  water  out 
of  his  rusty  tin  cup.  He  should  gasp  out  the  starry 
nights  in  his  stifling  cell ;  he  should  hear  the  rustling 
of  silken  robes,  as  ladies  went  the  prison  rounds, 
and  his  heart  would  beat  quick  as  he  thought  of 
Mary ;  he  should  burn  forever  with  the  fire  of  re 
morse  and  shame — yet  never  consume ;  the  taper 
would  flicker  and  flicker — yet  never  go  out 

So  Percy  sat  carelessly  down  on  the  hospital 
bench,  to  have  his  wound  dressed ;  and  listened  to 
the  asthmatic  breathing  of  the  sick  man  at  his  side, 


FANNY    FORD.  l7l 

and  saw  the  hospital  cook  stirring  in  a  cauldron 
some  diluted  broth,  and  watched  the  doctor,  as  he 
compounded  a  plaster,  and  leisurely  smoked  a  cigar ; 
and  looked  at  a  green  branch  which  the  wind  ever 
and  anon  swept  across  the  grated  window,  shower 
ing  its  snowy  blossoms,  as  if  in  mockery,  on  the 
prison  floor. 

0,  no — liberty  was  not  for  him — and  why  should 
it  be  ?  Had  he  not  forfeited  it  by  his  own  rash 
act? — was  not  his  punishment  just? — had  he  not 
lost  the  confidence  of  his  fellow  men  ? — crushed  the 
noblest  and  purest  heart  that  ever  God  warmed  into 
life  and  love  ?  It  was  all  too  true,  and  there  had 
been  moments  when  he  meekly  accepted  his  pun 
ishment,  when  he  toiled  in  his  prison  uniform,  not 
as  if  under  the  eye  of  a  taskmaster,  but  willingly, 
almost  cheerfully,  as  if  by  expiatory  penance  he 
could  atone  to  himself  for  the  wrong  he  had  done 
that  guileless  heart.  0,  did  it  still  beat?  and  for 
him  ?  for  the  thousandth  time  he  questioned.  Could 
Mary  look  on  him  ?  smile  on  him  ?  love  him  still  ? 
0,  what  mockery  were  liberty  else !  What  mat 
tered  it  how  brightly  the  sun  shone,  if  it  shone  not 
oil  their  love  purified  and  intensified  by  sorrow? 
What  matter  how  green  the  earth,  if  they  walked 
not  through  it  side  by  side  ?  What  mattered  it  how 
fresh  the  breeze — how  blue  the  sky — how  soft  the 
moonbeams — how  sweet  the  flowers — how  bright 
the  stars — if  day  and  night  found  not  their  twin  hearts 
beating  like  one  ?  Better  his  cell  should  be  his  tomb. 


172  FRESH    LEAVES. 


CHAPTER     XIV. 

"  I  LIKE  to  live  here,"  said  little  Fanny,  running 
up  to  Lucy,  with  her  sun-bonnet  hanging  at  the 
back  of  her  neck;  her  cheeks  glowing,  and  her 
apron  full  of  acorns,  pebbles,  pine  leaves,  grasses 
and  flowers ;  "  see  here,  I  tied  them  up  with  a  blade 
of  grass  for  you,  and  here 's  a  white  clover ;  a  great 
bumble  bee  wanted  it,  he  buzzed  and  buzzed,  but 
I  ran  off  with  it;  won't  you  go  with  me,  grand 
mother,  and  help  me  find  a  four-leaved  clover? 
Don't  sew  any  more  on  those  old  vests.  Who 
taught  you  to  make  vests?"  asked  the  little  chatter 
box. 

"  0,  I  learned  many — many — years  ago,"  replied 
Lucy,  with  a  sigh,  as  she  thought  of  Jacob ;  "  and 
now  you  see,  dear,  what  a  good  thing  it  is  to  learn 
something  useful  when  one  is  young.  If  I  did  not 
know  how  to  make  these  vests,  I  could  not  pay  for 
this  room  we  live  in,  you  know ;  here,  thread  my 
needle,  darling,  either  the  eye  is  too  small,  or  my 
eye  is  too  dim ;  I  can't  see  as  well  as  I  used." 

"  I  wish  I  could  do  something  useful,"  said  Fanny, 
as  she  handed  back  the  needle.  "  I  can  only  brush 
up  the  hearth,  and  fill  the  tea-kettle,  and  pick  up 
your  spools,  and  thread  your  needle,  and — what 
else,  grandma  ?" 

"  Make  this  lonely  old  heart  glad,  my  darling," 
said  Lucy,  pressing  her  lips  to  Fanny's  forehead. 


FANNY    FORD.  173 

"  Why  didn't  my  papa  ever  come  kiss  me?"  asked 
Fanny.  "Was  I  too  naughty  for  my  papa  to 
love  ?" 

«  No — no,  my  darling,"  said  Lucy,  turning  away 
her  head  to  restrain  her  tears,  "you  are  the  best 
little  girl  that — but  run  away,  Fanny,"  said  she, 
fearing  to  trust  herself  to  speak.  "  Go  find  grandma 
a  pretty  four-leaved  clover." 

The  child  sprang  up  and  bounded  toward  the 
door.  Standing  poised  on  one  foot  on  the  thresh 
old,  with  her  little  neck  bending  forward,  she 
exclaimed  eagerly,  "  Oh,  grandma,  I  dare  not ; 
there's  a  man  climbing  over  the  stile  into  the 
meadow,  with  a  pack  on  his  back ;  won't  he  hurt 
me  ?" 

"No,"  said  Lucy,  peering  over  her  spectacles  at 
the  man,  and  then  resuming  her  seat,  "  it  is  only  a 
peddler,  Fanny  ;  shops  are  scarce  in  the  country,  so 
they  go  round  with  tapes,  needles,  and  things,  to  sell 
the  farmers'  wives.  I  am  glad  he  has  come,  for  I 
want  some  more  sewing-silk  to  make  these  button 
holes." 

"  Good  day,  ma'am,"  said  the  peddler,  unlading 
his  pack.  "  Would  you  like  to  buy  any  thing  to 
day  ?  Combs — collars — needles — pins — tapes — rib 
bons — laces  ?  buy  any  thing  to-day,  ma'am  ?" 

"  May  I  look  ?"  whispered  Fanny  to  Lucy,  at 
tracted  by  the  bright  show  in  the  box. 

"  There's  a  ribbon  for  your  hair,"  said  the  peddler, 
touching  her  curls  caressingly ;  "  and  here  is  a  string 
15* 


174  FRESH    LEAVES. 

of  beads  for  your  neck.  You  will  let  me  give  them 
to  you,  won't  you  ?  because  I  have  no  little  girl  to 
love ;"  and  his  voice  trembled  slightly. 

*'  May  I  love  him,  grandma  ?"  whispered  Fanny, 
for  there  was  something  in  the  peddler's  voice  that 
brought  tears  into  her  eyes.  "  May  I  give  him 
some  milk  to  drink,  and  a  piece  of  bread  ?"  and 
hardly  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  flew  to  the  cup 
board,  and  returned  with  her  simple  lunch. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  peddler,  in  a  low  voice, 
without  raising  his  eyes. 

The  sewing-silk  was  purchased,  and  the  box  re 
arranged,  and  strapped  up,  but  still  the  peddler  lin 
gered.  Lucy,  thinking  he  might  be  weary,  invited 
him  to  stop  and  rest  awhile. 

"  I  will  sit  here  on  the  door-step  awhile,  if  you 
please,  with  the  little  girl,"  said  the  peddler.  "  Are 
you  fond  of  flowers  ?"  said  he  to  Fanny,  again 
touching  her  shining  curls. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  replied ;  "  only  I  don't  like  to  go 
alone  to  get  them — the  cows  stare  at  me  so  with 
their  great  big  eyes,  and  the  little  toads  hop  over 
my  feet,  and  I  am  afraid  they  will  bite ;  they  won't 
bite,  will  they  ?"  asked  Fanny,  looking  confidingly 
up  in  his  face. 

u  I  should  not  think  any  thing  could  harm  you" 
replied  the  peddler,  drawing  his  fingers  across  his 
eyes. 

"  What  are  you  crying  for  ?"  asked  Fanny, 
"  'cause  you  haven't  any  little  girl  to  love  you  ?" 


FANNY    FORD.  175 

"  The  dust,  dear,  in  the  road,  quite  blinded  me  to 
day,"  replied  the  peddler. 

"  I  will  bring  you  some  water  for  them,  in  my 
little  cup,"  said  Fanny.  "  Grandma  bathes  her  eyes 
when  they  ache,  sewing  on  those  tiresome  vests." 

"  No — no" — said  the  peddler,  catching  her  by  the 
hand  as  she  sprang  up — "  don't  go  away — sit  down 
— here — close  by  me — I  will  make  a  wreath  of  flowers 
for  your  hah- ;  your  eyes  are  as  blue  as  this  violet." 

"  They  are  mamma's  eyes,"  said  Fanny.  "  Grand 
ma  calls  them  l  mamma's  eyes.'  We  have  a  pretty 
picture  of  mamma — see — that's  it,"  and  she  bounded 
across  the  room  and  drew  aside  a  calico  curtain 
which  screened  it.  "  There,  isn't  it  pretty  ? — why 
don't  you  look  ?" 

The  peddler  slowly  turned  his  head,  and  replied,  in 
a  husky  voice,  "  Yes,  dear." 

"  Mamma  is  dead,"  said  Fanny,  re-seating  herself 
by  his  side.  "  What  makes  you  shiver  ?  are  you 
cold  ? — he  is  sick,  grandma,"  said  Fanny,  running 
up  to  Lucy. 

"  A  touch  of  my  old  enemy,  the  ague,  ma'am," 
said  the  peddler,  respectfully — and  Lucy  returned  to 
her  needle. 

"  Yes,  my  mamma  is  dead,"  said  Fanny.  "  Are 
you  sorry  my  mamma  is  dead  ?  Sometimes  I  talk 
to  her — grandma  likes  to  have  me ;  but  mamma's 
picture  never  speaks  back.  Don't  you  wish  my 
mamma  would  speak  back  ?"  said  Fanny,  looking  up 
earnestly  in  his  face. 


170  FRESH    LEAVES. 

The  peddler  nodded — bending  lower  over  the 
wreath  he  was  twining. 

"  My  papa  is  dead,  too,"  said  Fanny — "  are  you 
sony  my  papa  is  dead?  Nobody  loves  me  but 
grandma  and  God." 

"And  I" — said  the  peddler,  touching  her  curls 
again  with  his  fingers. 

"  Why  do  you  keep  touching  my  hair  ?"  asked 
the  little  chatterbox. 

"  Because  it  is  so  like — oh,  well — I  am  sure  I 
don't  know,"  said  the  peddler,  placing  the  wreath 
over  her  bright  face,  and  touching  his  lips  to  her 
forehead.  "  Good-by,  dear,  don't  forget  me.  I 
will  make  you  a  prettier  wreath  sometime,  shall 
I?" 

"  0  yes,"  said  Fanny ;  "  let  me  tell  grandma. 
Grandma  is  so  deaf  she  can't  hear  us ;"  and  the 
child  ran  back  into  the  room  to  tell  the  news. 

"  I  like  peddlers,"  said  little  Fanny,  as  she  watched 
her  new  friend  saunter  slowly  down  the  road.  "  lie 
gave  me  this  pretty  wreath  and  this  ribbon ;  I  am 
sorry  he  didn't  like  mamma's  picture;  he  hardly 
looked  at  it  at  all." 

"  The  pedlder  never  heard  of  your  mamma,  my 
darling ;  you  must  not  expect  strangers  to  feel  as 
you  and  grandma  do  about  it." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Fanny,  in  a  disappointed  tone ; — 
"but  it  is  a  pity,  because  I  like  him.  There  ha 
goes ;  now  he  has  climbed  the  fence,  and  is  crossing 
the  meadow.  Good  by,  Mr.  Peddler." 


FANNY  FORD.  177 

Yes — across  the  meadow,  down  the  little  grassy 
lane,  over  the  stile — far  into  the  dim — dim  woods, 
where  no  human  eye  could  penetrate,  prostrate 
upon  the  earth,  shedding  such  tears  as  manhood  sel 
dom  sheds,  lay  the  peddler.  Still  in  his  ears  lingered 
that  bird-like  voice,  still  in  his  veins  thrilled  the 
touch  of  that  tiny  hand,  and  those  silken  curls,  in 
whose  every  glossy  wave  shone  out  Mary's  self. 
Mary — yet  not  Mary ;  Mary's  child — yet  not  his 
child  ! — And  Lucy,  too  ; — 0,  the  sorrow  written  in 
every  furrow  of  that  kindly  face,  and — 0  Grod — by 
whom  ? 

The,  stars  glimmered  through  the  trees,  the  night- 
winds  gently  rocked  the  little  merry  birds  to  sleep 
— midnight  came  on  with  its  solemn  spirit-whispers 
— followed  the  gray  dawn  with  its  misty  tears,  and 
still — there  lay  the  peddler,  stricken,  smitten,  on  Na 
ture's  kindly  breast ;  for  there,  too  (but  all  uncon 
scious  of  his  misery — deaf  to  his  penitence),  lay 
pillowed  the  dear  head  which  had  erst  drooped  so 
lovingly  upon  his  breast, 

CHAPTER     XV. 

"  VERY  well  done ;  button-holes  strong  and  even , 
lining  smooth;  stitching,  like  rows  of  seed  pearl. 
This  is  no  apprentice  work,"  said  Mr.  John  Pray,  as 
he  held  Lucy's  vests  up  to  the  light  for  a  more  mi 
nute  inspection.  "  That's  a  vest,  now,  as  is  a  vest  ; 
won't  disgrace  John  Fray's  shop  ;  it  would  gladden 


178  FRESH    LEAVES. 

even  the  eyes  of  my  old  boss,  Jacob  Ford ;  and 
mighty  particular  he  was,  too,  and  mighty  small 
wages  the  old  man  paid,  as  I  have  occasion  to  know. 
Well,  I  made  a  vow  then,  and  thank  God  I  have 
had  grace  to  keep  it,  that  if  ever  John  Pray  became  a 
master  workman,  he  would  do  as  he  would  be  done 
by.  So,  I  don't  ask  what  wages  other  tailors  give ; 
that  don't  matter  to  me.  I  don't  want  to  die  with 
any  body's  groans  in  my  ears.  So,  when  a  piece  of 
work  is  finished  and  handed  in,  I  say,  l  ISTow,  John 
Pray,  what  should  you  think  was  a  fair  price  for  you 
to  receive,  if  you  had  done  that  'ere  job  ?  That's 
it;  no  dodging  behind  that  question.  'Specially 
when  a  man  has  been  through  the  operate  mill 
himself.  So,  there's  your  pay,  Zekiel,  weighed  out 
in  that  ere  pair  of  Bible  scales ;  and  you  may  tell 
the  old  lady,  as  you  call  her,  that  if  she  had  served 
a  regular  apprenticeship  at  the  trade,  she  couldn't 
have  donfe  better.  What  did  you  say  her  name 
was  ?  However,  that's  no  consequence — as  long  as 
she  does  the  work  well.  Here's  some  more  vests 
for  her." 

"Well,  I  really  don't  know,"  said  Zekiel,  "I 
never  heern  tell  her  name.  She's  a  bran  new  neigh 
bor,  and  as  I  was  coming  into  town  every  day  with 
my  cart,  she  axed  me,  civil  like,  if  I'd  bring  these 
vests  to  you.  So,  I  brung  'em.  I  don't  mind  doing 
a  good  turn  for  a  fellow  creetur,  now  and  then, 
specially  when  it  'taint  no  bother,"  added  Zekiel, 
with  a  grin. 


FANNY    FORD.  ]  79 

"  What  did  you  spoil  it  for  by  saying  that  ?"  said 
John  Pray.  "  I  was  just  going  to  clap  you  on  the 
back  for  a  clever  fellow." 

"  You  might  go  further,  and  clap  a  worse  fellow 
on  the  back,"  answered  ZekieL  "  But  I  never  boasts, 
I  don't.  'Tain't  no  use.  If  the  ministers  tell  the 
truth,  we've  all  got  to  be  weighed  in  the  big  scales 
up  above,  where  there  ain't  no  false  weights — bad 
deeds  agin  good  deeds.  Farmer  Reed,  I'm  think 
ing,  will  be  astonished  when  the  balance  on  his  ac 
count  is  struck.  But,  good  day  ;  my  parsnips  and 
cabbages  ought  to  be  in  the  market,  instead  of  wilt 
ing  at  your  door — even  though  you  city  folks  don't 
know  the  taste  of  a  fresh  vegetable.  Good  day." 

CHAPTER      XVI. 

RAIN — rain — rain;  patter,  patter.  No  sunshine 
to  help  Lucy's  purblind  eyes  in  stitching  the  dark 
vests;  no  sunshsine  to  kiss  open  the  buttercups 
for  Fanny.  The  birds  took  short  and  hasty  flights 
from  tree  to  tree ;  the  farmers  slouched  their  hats 
over  their  faces,  and  whipped  up  their  teams ;  the 
little  school  children  hurried  back  and  forth  with 
their  satchels,  without  stopping  to  look  for  chip 
munks  or  for  ground-birds'  nests ;  the  bells  on  the 
baker's  cart  lost  their  usual  merry  tinkle,  and  the  old 
fishman's  horn,  as  he  went  his  Friday  round,  gave 
forth  a  discordant,  spiritless  whine. 

Little  Fanny  had  righted  her  grandmothers  work- 


180  FRESH    LEAVES. 

basket,  read  "  Jack  and  his  Bean-Stalk,"  made 
houses  on  the  slate,  put  the  black  kitten  to  sleep  in 
the  old  barrel,  blown  soap  bubbles,  till  she  was 
tired,  in  the  tin  bowl,  and  had  finally  crept  up  on 
the  little  oot  bed  and  fallen  asleep. 

Lucy  sat  back  in  her  chair,  and  began  counting 
over  the  money  Zekiel  had  brought  her.  It  would 
relieve  their  present  necessities.  Fanny  should  have 
some  new  clothes  out  of  it,  when  farmer  Smith's 
rent  was  paid.  But  the  future  ?  Lucy's  eyes  were 
growing  dimmer  every  day.  and  her  limbs  more  fee 
ble.  She  might  drop  off  suddenly,  and  then  who 
would  befriend  poor  little  Fanny:  What  lessons 
of  sorrow  had  that  loving  little  heart  to  learn  ?  By 
what  thorny  path  would  she  thread  life's  toilsome 
journey  ? 

Dear  little  Fanny !  She  could  no  more  live  with 
out  love  than  flowers  without  sunshine.  That  she 
should  ever  weep  tears,  that  no  kindly  hand  should 
wipe  away  ;  that  she  should  hunger  or  thirst — 
shiver  with  winter's  cold — faint  under  summer  heat ; 
that  a  harsh  voice  should  ever  drive  the  blood 
from  her  lip  or  cheek — that  her  round  limbs  should 
bend  with  premature  toil — that  sin  should  tempt  her 
helplessness — that  sorrow  should  invite  despair — 
that  wrong  should  ever  seem  right  to  Mary's  child  t 
Poor  Lucy  bowed  her  head  and  wept. 

The  peddler  looked  in  through  the  little  casement 
window.  He  saw  the  falling  tears,  he  saw  Lucy's 
sorrowful  gaze  at  the  rosy  little  dreamer.  He  needed 


FANNY    FORD.  181 

no  explanation  of  the  tableau.  He  knocked  at  the 
door  ;  Lucy's  tones  were  tremulous,  as  she  bade  him 
come  in. 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  wanting  some  more 
silk,"  said  he,  respectfully,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
little  Fanny. 

"  Sit  down — sit  down,"  said  Lucy;  for  the  tones 
of  his  voice  were  kindly,  and  and  her  heart  in  its 
loneliness  craved  sympathy.  "  It  is  dull  weather  we 
have,  sir;  one  don't  mind  it  when  all  is  right  here" 
and  she  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart. 

"  True,"  said  the  peddler,  in  a  low  voice,  still  gaz 
ing  at  Fanny. 

"  The  child  sleeps,"  said  Lucy.  "  It  was  of  her  I 
was  thinking  when  you  came  in ;  it  would  be  very 
bitter  to  die  and  leave  her  alone,  sir ;"  and  Lucy's 
tears  flowed  again. 

"  Have  you  no  relatives — no  friends,  to  whom 
you  could  intrust  her  ?"  asked  the  peddler,  with  his 
eyes  bent  on  the  ground. 

"  None,  GTod  help  us,"  replied  Lucy. 

"  Sir,"  and  Lucy  drew  her  chair  nearer  to  the 
peddler,  "  a  great  sorrow  may  sometimes  be  in  the 
heart,  when  smiles  are  on  the  face." 

The  peddler  nodded,  without  trusting  himself  to 
speak. 

"  This  poor  heart  has  borne  up  until  now,  with 
what  strength  it  might ;  but  now" — and  she  glanced 
at  little  Fanny— "  0,  sir— if  I  could  but  take  her 
with  me." 

16 


182  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"  G-od  will  care  for  her,"  said  the  peddler,  stooping 
to  remove  his  hat,  that  Lucy  might  not  see  his  emo 
tion. 

"  Sometimes  I  feel  that,"  replied  Lucy ;  "  and  then 
again — 0,  sir,  trouble  makes  the  heart  so  fearful. 
My  poor  daughter — she  was  our  idol,  sir — the  sun 
beam  in  our  home ;  so  good — so  beautiful — so  light- 
hearted,  till  the  trouble  came.  It  was  like  a  light 
ning  bolt,  sir — it  scathed  and  withered  in  one 
moment  what  was  before  so  fresh  and  fair ;  it  blight 
ed  all  our  hopes,  it  blackened  our  hearth-stone,  it 
killed  my  husband — poor  Jacob.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I 
talk  as  if  you  had  known  our  history.  It  was  Ma 
ry's  lover,  sir;  he  was  taken  up  for  swindling,  at 
our  very  door ; — and  yet  I  loved  the  lad — for  the 
ground  she  walked  on  he  loved — for  Mary's  sake." 

"  She  forgave  him  ?"  asked  the  peddler,  in  a  voice 
scarcely  audible. 

"  She  ? — poor  dear — she  ?  All  the  world  could 
not  have  made  her  believe  ill  of  him.  She  ?  Why, 
sir,  she  would  sit  at  the  window  for  hours,  watch 
ing  the  way  he  used  to  come.  It  crazed  her,  poor 
thing ;  and  then  she  would  come  and  go  just  as  she 
was  bid.  Her  father  saw  her  fade,  day  by  day,  and 
cursed  him  ; — he  forgot  business — every  thing  went 
wrong — one  way  and  another  our  money  went,  and 
then  Jacob  died." 

"  He  forgave  him — your  daughter's  lover,  before 
he  died  ?"  asked  the  peddler,  tremulously. 

"  You  have  a  kind  heart,  sir,"  said  Lucy.     "  Yes, 


FANNY    FORD.  183 

Jacob's  heart  softened  at  the  last; — he  said  we 
all  needed  God's  mercy.  His  last  words  were 
1  Peace.'" 

"  God  be  thanked,"  murmured  the  peddler  ;  then 
adding,  quickly,  "  it  must  have  made  you  so  much 
happier ;  you  say  you  loved  the  lad." 

"  Yes,"  said  Lucy,  "  even  now.  We  all  err,  sir. 
He  was  only  nineteen — young  to  marry ;  but  Mary's 
heart  was  bound  up  in  him.  He  did  n't  mean  it,  sir 
— I  don't  know  how  it  was.  God  help  us  all. 

"Well,  we  buried  Jacob;  then  we  had  none  to 
look  to— Mary  and  L  We  were  poor.  I  was  fee 
ble.  Then  Mary's  lover  came — the  rich  Mr.  Shaw. 
You  are  ill,  sir  ?" 

"No — no,"  replied  the  peddler;  "go  on — your 
story  interests  me." 

il  Well,  he  wanted  to  marry  Mary,  although  he 
saw  how  it  was.  It  was  all  one  to  her,  you  know, 
sir.  She  was  crazed  like — though  so  sweet  and 
gentle.  I  did  it  for  the  best,  sir,"  said  Lucy,  mourn 
fully.  "  I  thought  when  I  died  Mary  would  have 
a  home." 

"  Go  on,"  said  the  peddler..  "  Pie  treated  her  kind 
ly  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  dark  frown. 

"For  a  little,"  answered  Lucy.  "He  wearied 
after  a  while.  I  might  have  known  it — I  was  to 
blame,  sir — her  heart  was  broken.  When  the  babe 
opened  its  eyes,  she  closed  her's,  and  I  alone 
mourned  for  her." 

"  0,  God !"  groaned  the  peddler. 


184  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"It  moves  you,  sir,"  said  Lucy;  "perhaps  you, 
too,  have  known  trouble." 

The  peddler  bowed  his  head  without  replying. 

"  Then,  sir,  he  brought  a  gay  young  thing  into 
the  house — his  mistress — not  his  wife.  He  never 
looked  upon  his  child ;  he  cursed  me  and  it.  I 
gave  it  our  name  ;  I  called  it  Fanny  Ford  ;  and  we 
crept  away,  the  babe  and  I,  up  in  the  attic ; — then 
all  was  confusion — extravagance — ruin  ; — then  he 
died,  sir — and  since — you  see  us  here — you  know 
now,  sir,  why  I,  leaning  over  the  grave's  brink,  yet 
shrink  back  and  cling  to  life  for  her  sake,"  and  she 
looked  at  Fanny. 

"  Would  you  trust  her  with  me  ?"  asked  the  ped 
dler,  with  his  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground.  "  I  am 
all  alone  in  the  world — I  have  none  to  love — 
none  who  love  me — I  am  poor,  but  while  I  have  a 
crust,  she  shall  never  want." 

"  It  is  a  great  charge,"  replied  Lucy.  "  If  you 
should  weary,  sir  ?" 

"Then  may  G-od  forget  me,"  said  the  peddler, 
earnestly,  kneeling  at  Lucy's  feet. 

Lucy  bent  on  him  a  -gaze  searching  as  truth,  but 
she  read  nothing  in  that  upturned  face  to  give  the 
lie  to  those  solemn  words.  Pointing  to  Fanny,  she 
said, 

"  Before  God — and  as  you  hope  for  peace  at  the 
last?" 

The  peddler  bowed  his  head  upon  Lucy's  with 
ered  hand,  and  faltered  out,  "  I  promise." 


FANNY    FORD.  185 


CHAPTER     XVII. 

"  GOOD  morning,  Zekiel,"  said  John  Pray.  "  Grlad 
to  see  you — you  must  tell  the  old  lady  to  go  ahead 
and  finish  this  pile  of  vests  in  a  twinkling ;  business 
is  brisk  now.  Why,  what's  this  ?"  said  he.  "  These 
vests  unfinished  ?  How's  that  ?  Don't  the  pay  suit? 
What's  the  trouble  now  ?" 

"Don't/'  said  Zekiel — "don't — stop  a  bit — I'm 
as  tough  as  any  man — but  there's  some  things  I 
oau't  stand  ;"  and  he  dashed  a  tear  away. 

"  What's  the  matter  now?"  asked  John.  "  Is  the 
old  lady  dissatisfied  with  her  pay  ?" 

"  Don't — I  say,"  said  Zekiel ; — "  hold  up — don't 
harrow  a  man  that  way — she's  dead — I  tell  you 
stone  dead.  She  never  '11  make  no  more  vests  for 
nobody.  I  never  shall  forget  what  I  saw  there  this 
morning,  never. 

"  You  see  she  was  old  and  infirm,  and  wan't  fit 
to  work  for  any  body  any  how ;  but  she  had  a  little 
gran'child,  fresh  as  a  rose-bud,  and  she  did  it  for 
her,  you  see.  Well,  this  morning  I  harnessed  the 
old  gray  horse — the  black  one  is  lame  since  Sunday 
— and  reined  up  at  her  door,  as  usual,  to  get  the 
bundle.  I  knocked,  and  nobody  came;  then  I 
knocked  again,  then  little  rose-bud  came  tip-toeing  to 
the  door,  with  her  finger  on  her  pretty  lip,  so — and 
whispered,  '  grandma  is  asleep ;  she  has  not  woke 
up  this  great  while,'  So  I  said — 'You'd  better 
16* 


186  FRESH    LEAVES. 

speak  to  her  and  say,  here's  Zekiel,  come  for  the 
bundle,  cause  you  know  she  is  partiklar  like  about 
sending  it.'  So  the  little  rose-bud  went  up  to  the 
bed-side,  and  said — '  Grandma,  here  is  Zekiel,  come 
for  the  vests.'  The  old  lady  did  n't  say  nothing,  and 
rose-bud  asked  me  to  speak  to  her.  I  went  up,  and 
— John  Pray — the  old  lady  was  stone  dead,  and 
how  was  I  going  to  tell  that  to  little  rose-bud  ?" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  the  child  was  all 
alone  with  the  corpse — nobody  to  see  to  the  poor 
thing  ?"  asked  John. 

"  But  I  do,  though,"  said  Zekiel ;  "it  was  enough 
to  break  a  body's  heart,  and  she  so  innocent  like.  I 
never  was  so  put  to  it  in  my  life,  to  know  what  to 
do.  There  she  had  gone  and  tidied  up  the  kitchen, 
hung  the  tea-kettle  on  the  fire  as  well  as  she  knew 
how,  and  sat  waiting  for  her  gran'mother  to  '  wake 
up,'  as  she  called  it.  How  could  I  tell  her  she  was 
dead  ?  Blast  me  if  I  could,  to  this  minute." 

*'  But  you  didn't  come  away  and  leave  her  so  ?" 
asked  Jokn. 

"  JSTo,"  replied  Zekiel,  "  for  a  peddler  came  in,  and 
little  rose-bud  ran  up,  glad-like,  to  see  him ;  then  I 
beckoned  him  one  side,  and  told  him  just  how  it 
was,  and  he  turned  as  white  as  a  turnip,  and  great 
big  tears  rolled  down  his  face,  as  he  took  little  rose 
bud  up  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  Then  he  told 
me  he  was  a  kind  of  a  relation  like,  and  poor,  but 
that  he  would  take  the  child  and  do  the  best  he 
could  by  her ;  and  I  knew  he  must  be  clever,  for 


FANNY    FORD.  187' 

children  are  powerful  'cute,  and  never  take  to 
cranky  folks,  any  how — and  so  I  left  them,  and 
came  blubbering  into  town.  I  vow  it  was  enough 
to  make  the  very  stones  cry,  to  see  little  rose-bud 
take  on  so,  after  the  old  lady." 

There  was  no  litigious  will  to  be  read,  no  costly 
effects  to  quarrel  about,  in  Lucy  Ford's  poor  cottage, 
and  yet  G-olconda's  mines  were  all  too  poor  to  buy 
the  priceless  treasures  to  which  the  peddler  fell  heir 
— Mary's  picture  and  Mary's  child ! 

With  such  talismans,  what  should  he  fear  ?  what 
could  he  not  accomplish?  He  no  longer  walked 
with  his  head  bowed  upon  his  breast.  The  pure 
love  of  that  sinless  little  one  restored  his  long-lost 
self-respect.  Life  was  dear  to  him.  His  eye  re 
gained  its  luster;  his  step  its  firmness.  Even  his 
humble  calling,  now  more  than  ever  necessary,  be 
came  to  him  dignified  and  attractive.  Fanny  should 
have  an  education  worthy  of  Mary's  child.  For  the 
present,  till  he  had  amassed  a  little  capital,  he  must 
find  her  a  home  in  some  quiet  farmer's  family, 
where  he  could  oversee  her,  in  his  occasional  visits. 

Dear  little  Fanny  !  with  her  smiles  and  tears,  she 
had  already  twined  herself  round  every  fiber  of  his 
heart.  "  Cousin  John,"  as  the  peddler  taught  her  to 
call  him,  "  was  to  take  care  of  her  always,  and  she 
was  to  love  him  dearly — dearly — better  than  any 
body,  but  mamma  and  grandma," 


188  FRESH    LEAVES. 


CHAPTER    XVIII. 

AH  !  there  is  Mrs.  Quip's  head,  poked  out  of  the 
north  chamber  window.  A  sure  sign  that  it  is  five 
v  o'clock  to  the  minute.  Now  she  scuds  across  the 
yard,  making  a  prodigious  flutter  with  her  flying 
calico  long-short,  among  the  hens  and  chickens,  who 
take  refuge  in  an  upturned  old  barrel.  Snatching 
some  sticks  from  the  wood-pile,  she  scuds  back 
again  to  the  kitchen,  twitches  a  match  from  the 
mantel,  lights  the  fire,  hangs  on  the  tea-kettle  jerks 
out  the  table,  rattles  on  the  cups  and  saucers,  plates, 
knives,  forks,  etc.,  and  throws  open  every  blind, 
door,  and  window.  This  done,  she  flies  up  stairs, 
pokes  Susan  in  the  ribs,  drags  Mary  out  on  the  floor, 
throws  a  mug  of  water  in  "  that  lazy  John's  face," 
and  intimates  that  u  breakfast  will  be  on  the  table 
in  less  than  fifteen  minutes.". 

John  rubs  the  water  out  of  his  eyes,  muttering  a 
few  unmentionable  words.  Susan  and  Mary  make 
a  transient  visit  to  the  looking-glass,  and  descend 
the  stairs  just  as  the  coffee  smokes  upon  the  table. 
Mrs.  Quip  frightens  the  chickens  into  the  barrel 
again  with  her  calico  long-short  and  the  great  bell 
that  she  ring  at  the  barn-door  to  "  call  the  men  folks 
to  breakfast,"  and  takes  her  accustomed  seat  at  the 
table. 

"  Brown  bread  or  white  ?  baked  beans  or  salt 
meat  ?  doughnuts,  cheese,  or  apple-pie  ?  which'll 
you  have  ?"  said  Mrs.  Quip  to  little  Fanny. 


FANNY    FORD.  189 

li  Ma'am  ?"  said  Fanny,  with  a  bewildered  look. 

"  Oh,  dear ;  Susan  Quip,  for  gracious'  sake  find 
out  what  that  peddler's  child  wants ;  hurry,  all  of 
you.  Baking  to  be  done  to-day ;  yesterday's  iron 
ing  to  finish;  them  new  handkerchers  to  hem; 
John's  trowsers  to  mend ;  buttery  shelves  to  scour  ; 
brown  bread  sponge  to  set ;  yeast  to  make ;  pickles 
to  scald  ;  head-cheese  to  fix :  hurry,  all  of  you.  Su 
san  Quip,  there's  the  cat  in  the  buttery,  smack,  and 
— -scissors — right  into  that  buttermilk,  arter  a  mouse. 
Scat — scat ;  Susan  Quip,  that's  your  doings — leav 
ing  the  buttery  door  open.  John  Quip,  do  you 
drownd  that  cat  to-day.  Don't  talk  to  me  of  kit 
tens;  kittens  is  as  plenty  as  peddlers'  children. 
Hand  me  that  coffee,  Susan  Quip.  Lord-a-mercy, 
there's  the  fishman :  run,  John — two  mackerel,  not 
more  than  sixpence  a-piece ;  pinch  'em  in  the  stom 
ach,  to  see  if  they  are  fresh.  If  they  are  flabby, 
don't  take  'em ;  if  they  ain't,  do.  Yes,  every  thing 
to  do,  to-day,  and  a  little  more  beside.  Soft  soap 
to Heavens  and  earth,  John  Quip,  that  mack 
erel  man  hasn't  given  you  the  right  change  by  two 
cents.  Here,  stop  him!  John  Quip — Susan — get 
out  of  the  way,  all  of  you ;  I'll  go  myself,"  and  the 
calico  long-short  started  in  full  pursuit  of  the  mack 
erel  defaulter. 

Poor  little  Fanny !  no  Green  Mountain  boy,  set 
down  in  the  rush  of  the  city,  ever  felt  half  so  crazy. 
Mrs.  Quip,  with  her  snap-dragon,  touch-me-not- 
mamiers,  high-pitched  voice,  and  heavy  tramp,  was 


190  FRESH    LEAVES. 

such  a  contrast  to  her  dear  grandmother,  with  her 
soft  tones,  noiseless  step,  and  gentle  ways.  Fanny 
was  afraid  to  move  for  fear  she  should  cross  Mrs. 
Quip's  track.  She  did  not  know  whether  she  were 
hungry  or  thirsty.  She  marveled  at  the  railroad 
velocity  with  which  the  food  disappeared,  and  pitied 
Mrs.  Quip  so  much  for  having  such  a  quantity  of 
tilings  to  do  all  in  a  minute  ! 

The  next  day  after  Fanny's  arrival  at  Butternut 
farm,  was  Sunday.  Mrs.  Quip  was  up  betimes,  as 
usual,  but  her  activity  took  a  devotional  turn.  She 
was  out  to  the  barn  fifty  times  a  minute,  to  see  tl  if 
the  horse  and  waggin  was  getting  harnessed  for 
ineetin'," — not  but  Mr.  Quip  was  still  above  ground, 
but  as  far  as  he  had  any  voice  in  family  matters,  he 
might  as  well  have  been  under.  Mrs.  Quip  was  up 
in  Susan's  room  (or,  as  she  pronounced  it,  /Sfewsan), 
to  see  if  she  was  learning  her  catechise ;  she  was 
padlock-ing  John  Quip's  Sunday  temptation,  in  the 
shape  of  the  "  Thrilling  Adventures  of  Jack  Bow 
sprit  ;"  she  was  giving  the  sitting-room  as  Sabbati 
cal  and  funereal  an  aspect  as  possible,  by  setting  the 
chairs  straight  up  against  the  walls,  shutting  all  the 
blinds,  and  putting  into  the  cupboard  every  thing 
that  squinted  secular-wise. 

Fanny,  oppressed  by  the  gloom  within  doors, 
crept  out  into  the  warm  sunshine,  and  seating  her 
self  under  a  tree  in  the  yard,  was  looking  at  a  few 
clover  blossoms  which  she  had  plucked  beside  her. 
She  was  thinking  of  the  pleasant  Sundays  she  had 


FANNY    FORD.  191 

passed  with  her  dear  grandmother,  and  how  she 
used  to  sit  on  the  door-step  of  the  cottage,  and  tell 
her  how  God  taught  the  little  birds  to  build  their 
cradle  nests,  and  find  their  way  through  the  air ; 
and  how  He  provided  even  for  the  little  ants,  who 
so  patiently,  grain  by  grain,  built  their  houses  in  the 
gravel  walk ;  and  how  He  kept  the  grass  green  with 
the  dew  and  showers,  and  ripened  the  fruit,  and 
opened  the  blossoms  with  the  warm  sunshine,  and 
liow  He  was  always  watching  over  us,  caring  for 
our  wants,  listening  to  our  cries,  pitying  us  for  our 
sorrows,  and  making  His  sun  to  shine  even  on  those 
who  forget  to  thank  Him  for  it  But  see — Fanny 
has  dropped  her  clover  blossoms,  for  Mrs.  Quip  has 
seized  her  by  the  arm,  and  says, 

"  You  wicked  child,  you  I  To  think  of  picking  a 
flower  Sunday  !  What  do  you  expect  will  become 
of  you  when  you  die  ?  What  do  you  think  the 
neighbors  will  think  ?  Sinful  child !  There" — slam 
ming  her  down  on  a  cricket  in  the  sitting-room — 
"  sit  down,  and  see  if  you  can  learn  what  the  chief 
end  of  man  is,  afore  meeting  time.  Flowers  of  a 
Sunday  !  or  flowers  any  day,  for  the  matter  of  that, 
I  never  could  see  the  sense  of  'em.  Even  the  Bible 
says,  '  they  toil  not,  neither  do  they  spin.'  Gracious 
goodness — Sewsan  Quip,  Mrs.  Snow's  kerriage  has 
just  started  for  meetin'.  Get  your  things,  all  of  you. 
Sewsan,  see  to  that  peddler's  child ;  mind  that  she 
don't  take  no  flowers  to  the  Lord's  temple ;  John 
Quip,  you  shan't  wear  them  gloves;  they  cost 


192  FRESH    LEAVES. 

twenty-five  cents  at  the  finding-store ;  and  if  you 
think  that  I  bought  'em  for  you  to  drive  in,  you  are 
mistaken ;  now  put  'em  in  your  pocket  till  you  get 
into  the  meetin'-us  porch;  that  will  save  'em  a 
sight ;  them  leather  reins  will  wear  'em  all  thread 
bare  in  less  than  no  time.  Mercy  on  us,  the  string 
is  off  my  bunnet.  Sewsan,  that's  your  doing.  Run 
and  bring  me  a  pin  off  the  third  shelf  in  the  buttery, 
under  the  yellow  quart  bowl.  I  picked  it  up  and 
put  it  there  this  morning.  Make  haste,  now.  John 
Quip,  stop  cracking  your  whip  that  way  on  the  holy 
Sabbath  day.  What  do  you  suppose  your  dead 
grandpa  would  think,  if  he  should  hear  it  ?" 

The  wagon  was  brought,  and  its  living  freight 
stowed  carefully  away  in  the  remote  corners.  The 
oil-cloth  covering  was  buttoned  carefully  down  on 
ah1  sides,  as  it  had  been  during  the  winter ;  Mrs. 
Quip  said  it  was  hot,  but  maybe  it  would  crack  the 
oil-cloth  to  roll  it  up  for  the  breeze  to  play  through. 
Susan,  Mary,  and  Fanny,  therefore,  took  a  vapor 
bath,  on  the  back  seat.  Mrs.  Quip,  seated  at  John's 
side,  excluded,  with  her  big  black  bonnet,  any  stray 
breeze  which  might  have  found  entrance  that  way, 
to  the  refreshing  of  the  gasping  passengers.  Dob 
bin  moved  on ;  he  had  been  up  that  hot,  dusty  hill, 
many  a  Sunday  before,  and  understood  perfectly 
well  how  to  keep  his  strength  in  reserve  for  the 
usual  accession  to  his  load  on  the  village  green,  in 
the  shape  of  the  Falstaffian  Aunt  Hepsibah,  Miss 
Butts,  the  milliner,  and  Deacon  Tufts,  who  were 


FANNY    FORD.  193 

duly  piled  in  on  the  gasping  occupants  behind. 
Mrs.  Quip  being  also  on  the  alert  to  fill  up  any  stray 
chinks  in  the  "  waggin"  with  "  them  children  who 
stopped  to  rest  in  the  road?  when  they  oughter  go 
straight  to  meetin'." 

The  unlading  of  Mrs.  Quip's  wagon  at  the  meet 
ing-house  door,  was  an  exhibition  much  "  reckoned 
on"  by  the  graceless  young  men  of  the  village,  who 
always  collected  on  the  steps  for  the  purpose,  and 
with  mock  gallantry  assisted  Mrs.  Quip  in  clamber 
ing  over  the  wheels,  suppressing  their  mirth  at  her 
stereotyped  exhortation,  as  she  glanced  at  Dobbin, 
"  to  see  that  they  didn't  start  the  critter." 

It  was  a  work  of  time  to  draw  out  the  unctuous 
Aunt  Hepsibah ;  Deacon  Tufts,  more  wiry  and  agile, . 
"helped  hisself,"  as  Mrs.  Quip  remarked.  The' 
crowning  delight  was  the  evacuation  of  the  wagon; 
by  Miss  Butts — who,  with  a  mincing  glance  at  the 
men.  circumspectly  extended  one  finger  of  her  right 
hand — gingerly  exposed  the  tip  of  the  toe  of  her 
slipper,  arid  with  sundry  little  shrieks  and  exclama 
tions,  prolonged  indefinitely  the  delicious  agony  of 
her  descent,  as  the  young  gentlemen  by  turns  pro 
fanely  touched  her  virgin  elbows.  Thirty-nine  years 
of  single  blessedness  had  fully  prepared  her  to  ap 
preciate  these  little  masculine  attentions,  of  which 
she  always  made  an  exact  memorandum  in  her 
note-book  (affixing  the  date)  on  reaching  her  seat 
in  church.  The  unappropriated  Miss  Butts  wore 
rose-buds  in  her  bonnet,  as  emblematical  of  love's 
13 


194  FRESH    LEAVES. 

young  spring-time,  and  dressed  in  shepherdess 
style ;  nature,  perhaps,  suggesting  the  idea,  by 
placing  the  crook  in  her  back. 

Poor  little  Fanny  was  as  much  out  of  her  element 
at  Butternut  farm  as  a  humming-bird  in  a  cotton- 
mill.  She  could  not  "  heel  a  stocking,"  although 
Mrs.  Quip  "  knew  how  as  soon  as  she  was  born." 
She  could  neither  chain-stitch,  cross-stitch,  button 
hole-stitch,  nor  cat-stitch,  though  she  often  got  a 
stitch  in  her  side  trying  to  "  get  out  of  Mrs.  Quip's 
way."  She  did  not  know  "  whether  her  grand 
mother  was  orthodox  or  Unitarian ;"  whether 
Cousin  John  "  belonged  to  the  church,"  or  not ;  in 
fact,  as  Mrs.  Quip  remarked,  the  child  seemed  to  her 
"  not  to  have  the  slightest  idea  what  she  was  created 
for." 

"Cousin  John"  came  at  last!  with  an  empty 
pack,  a  full  purse,  and  a  fuller  heart.  Fanny  flew 
into  his  outspread  arms,  and  nestled  into  his  bosom, 
with  a  fullness  of  joy  which  the  friendles  sonly  can 
feel.  Out  of  sound  of  Mrs.  Quip's  trip-hammer 
tongue,  out  of  sight  of  Mrs.  Quip's  omniscient  eyes, 
Fanny  whispered  in  "  Cousin  John's"  ear,  crying., 
laughing,  and  kissing  the  while,  all  her  little  troubles. 
Cousin  John  did  not  smile,  for  he  knew  too  well 
how  keenly  the  little  trusting  heart,  which  beat 
against  his  own,  could  suffer  or  enjoy  ;  so  he  wiped 
her  tears  away,  and  told  her  that  she  should  say 
good-by  to  Butternut  farm,  and  accompany  him  on 
his  next  trip,  as  far  as  Canton,  where  he  would 


FANNY    FORD.  195 

leave  her  with  a  nice  old  lady,  who  had  a  red  and 
green  parrot,  and  who  taught  a  school  for  the  vil 
lage  children. 

It  was  a  pretty  sight — Cousin  John  and  Fanny  ; 
she.  skipping  on  before  him  to  pluck  a  flower,  then 
returning  to  glide  her  little  hand  in  his,  and  walk 
contentedly  by  his  side  ;  or,  standing  on  some  stile, 
waiting  to  be  lifted  over,  with  her  bonnet  blown 
back,  and  her  bright  little  face  beaming  with  smiles  ; 
Cousin  John  sometimes  answering  her  questions  at 
random,  as  the  tones  of  her  voice,  or  the  expression 
of  her  face,  recalled  her  lost  mother;  sometimes 
looking  proudly  upon  the  bud,  as  he  thought  how 
sweet  and  fair  would  be  the  blossom,  but  more  often 
gazing  at  her  tearfully,  as  Lucy's  last  solemn  words 
rang  in  his  ears. 

Percy  was  a  riddle  to  himself.  In  the  child's  pure 
presence,  every  spot  upon  his  soul's  mirror  he  would 
have  wiped  away.  Lips  which  had  never  framed  a 
prayer  for  themselves,  now  murmured  one  for  her. 
Feet  which  had  strayed  into  forbidden  paths,  would 
fain  have  found  for  her  tiny  feet  the  straight  and 
narrow  path  of  life. 

Insensibly  "a  little  child  was  leading  him" — 
nearer  to  Thee,  0  God,  nearer  to  Thee. 

Little  Fanny's  joy  on  this  pedestrian  tour  was  ir 
repressible ;  but  the  journey  was  not  all  performed 
on  foot:  many  a  good-natured  farmer  gave  them  a 
lift,  of  a  mile  or  two,  and  many  a  kind-hearted  farm- 


196  FRESH    LEAVES. 

cr's  wife  offered  Fanny  a  cake,  or  a  drink  of  milk, 
lor  the  sake  of  her  own  sun-burnt  children,  yet 
blessed  in  a  mother's  love.  Then  there  were  friendly 
trees  to  shade  them  from  the  scorching  noon-day 
sun,  where  the  peddler  could  unstrap  his  pack,  and 
Fanny  throw  off  her  bonnet  and  go  to  sleep  in  his 
lap.  Sparkling  brooks  there  were,  to  lave  thcii 
laces,  or  quench  their  thirst,  and  flowers  whoso 
beauty  might  have  tempted  on  tardier  feet  than 
Fanny's.  Their  only  trouble  was  "  Cousin  John's 
pack ;"  and  Fanny's  slender  stock  of  arithmetic  was 
exhausted  in  trying  to  compute  how  many  pieces  of 
tape,  how  many  papers  of  needles,  how  many  skeins 
of  thread,  must  be  sold  before  he  could  buy  a  horse 
and  wagon  to  help  him  to  carry  his  load.  The  ped 
dler,  too,  had  his  air-castles  to  build,  to  which  the 
afore-mentioned  tape,  needles,  and  thread  were  but 
the  stepping-stones.  Fanny  once  placed  where  she 
could  be  contented,  and  kindly  treated,  and  Cousin 
John  must  leave  her,  to  woo  Dame  Fortune,  for 
her  sake,  more  speedily. 

Fanny  shed  a  few  tears  when  she  heard  this,  poor 
child!  and  wondered  if  there  were  many  Mr?. 
Quips  in  the  world ;  but  the  motherly  face  of  Mrs. 
Chubbs,  with  her  three  chins,  the  queer  gabble  of  the 
red  and  green  parrot,  and  more  than  all,  the  society 
of  playfellows  of  her  own  age,  were  no  small  miti 
gations  of  the  parting  with  Cousin  John. 

Mrs.  Chubbs  would  most  decidedly  have  been 
turned  out  of  office  by  any  MODERN  school  commit- 


FANNY   FORD.  197 

tec.  When  a  little  creature  who  should  have  been 
in  the  nursery,  was  sent  to  her  charge,  "  to  be  out  of 
the  way,"  Mrs.  Chubbs  oftener  allowed  it  to'  stretch 
its  little  limbs  on  the  grass-plat,  front  of  the  door, 
than  she  set  it  poring  over  a  spelling-book.  She 
never  thumped  geography  or  arithmetic  into  her 
pupils  with  a  ferule.  A  humming-top  string,  or  a 
kite-tail  fragment  protruding  from  a  childish  pocket, 
excited  in  her  no  indignation.  A  bit  of  ginger 
bread,  or  an  apple,  munched  by  a  little  urchin  who 
had  made  an  early  or  an  indifferent  breakfast,  did 
not  appear  to  her  old-fashioned  vision  an  offense 
worthy  of  the  knout  or  the  guillotine.  In  fact, 
Mrs.  Chubb's  heart  was  as  capacious  as  her  pockets, 
and  their  unfathomable  depths  were  a  constant  mar 
vel  to  her  pupils. 

As  to  the  parrot,  he  constituted  himself  "  a  com 
mittee"  of  one,  and  called  out  occasionally,  "  Mind 
your  lessons,  I  say,"  to  Fanny's  great  diversion. 
And  Fanny  did  "  mind"  them ;  for  she  loved  good 
Mrs.  Chubb,  and  then  she  had  a  little  private  plan 
of  her  own  for  astounding  Cousin  John,  one  of  these 
days,  with  her  profound  erudition. 

And  so  time  passed — the  little  homesick  lump  in 
her  throat  had  quite  disappeared;  she  sang — she 
skipped  —  she  laughed — a  merrier  little  grig  never 
danced  out  a  slipper. 

Will  my  indulgent  reader  skip  over  ten  years 
with  me  ? — he  might  take  a  more  dangerous  leap — 


198  FRESH    LEAVES. 

and  enter  yonder  substantial-looking  building,  in 
which  young  ladies  are  "  finished."  Passing  by  the 
long  dining-hall,  with  its  bare  tavern-y  looking  table, 
and  rows  of  bamboo  chairs,  let  us  ascend  yonder 
marble  stairs  (for  the  school-house,  let  me  tell  you, 
was  once  an  aristocratic  old  mansion),  and  turn 
down  that  long  passage  to  the  right.  Now  let  us 
stop  before  No.  29.  Remove  your  hat,  if  you  please, 
because  I  am  about  to  usher  you  into  the  presence 
of  two  very  pretty  girls,  and  though  I  do  not  ap 
prove  of  eaves-dropping,  suppose  we  just  step  be 
hind  that  friendly  screen,  and  listen  to  what  they 
are  saying. 


CHAPTER     XIX. 

"  FANNY,  what  pains  you  are  taking  with  your 
hair  to-day !"  said  Kate.  "  Is  this  Cousin  John  who 
has  written  you  such  interminable  letters  from  '  El- 
Dorado,'  to  turn  out,  after  all,  your  lover  ?  I  hope 
not,  for  I  fancy  him  some  venerable  Mentor,  with  a 
solemn  face,  and  oracular  voice,  jealous  as  Bluebeard 
of  any  young  man  who  looks  at  you.  How  old  is 
this  paragon  ? — handsome  or  ugly  ?  I  am  dying  to 
know." 

"  Thirty-six,"  replied  Fanny  ;  "  and  as  I  remem 
ber  him,  with  dark,  curling  hair,  a  broad,  expansive 
brow,  eyes  one  would  never  weary  looking  into,  a 
voice  singularly  rich  and  sweet,  and  a  form  perfect 
but  for  a  trifling  stoop  in  the  shoulders.  That  is  my 


FANNY    FORD.  199 

Cousin  John,"  said  Fanny,  drawing  the  comb 
through  her  ringlets. 

"  Stoop  in  the  shoulders !  I  thought  as  much," 
mockingly  laughed  the  merry  Kate.  "  If  he  had  *  a 
stoop  in  the  shoulders'  ten  years  ago,  how  do  you 
suppose  your  Adonis  looks  now  ?" 

"  It  matters  very  little  to  me,"  replied  Fanny, 
with  a  little  annoyance  in  her  tone;  "it  matters 
very  little  to  me,  were  he  as  ugly  as  Caliban." 

''How  am  I  to  construe  that?1'  asked  Kate,  cross 
ing  her  two  forefingers  ("  it  matters  very  little  to 
you").  "  Does  it  mean  that  love  is  out  of  the  ques 
tion  between  you  two,  or  that  you  would  have  him 
if  Lucifer  stood  in  your  path  ?" 

"  Construe  it  as  it  best  suits  yon,"  replied  Fanny, 
with  the  most  provoking  nonchalance. 

"  But  l  a  stoop  in  the  shoulders,'  "  persisted  the 
tormenting  Kate.  "  I  don't  care  to  have  a  man's 
face  handsome,  provided  it  is  intelligent,  but  I  do 
insist  upon  a  fine  form,  -correct  morals,  and  a  good 
disposition." 

Fanny  laughed — "  I  suppose  you  think  to  wind 
your  husband  round  your  little  finger,  like  a  skein 
of  silk." 

"  With  Cupid's  help,"  replied  Kate,  with  mock 
humility. 

"  Of  course  you  will  be  quite  perfect ; — never,  for 
instance,  appear  before  your  husband  in  curl  papers, 
or  slip-shod  ?"  asked  Fanny  ;  "  never  make  him  eat 
bad  pies  or  puddings  ?" 


200  FRESH    LEAVE?. 

"  That  depends,"  answered  Kate,  "  if  he  is  tract 
able — not;  if  not — why  not?" 

"  You  will  wink  at  his  cigars  ?" 

"  He  might  do  worse." 

"  You  will  patronize  his  moustache  ?" 

"If  he  will  my  snuff-box,"  said  Kate,  laughing. 
"  Heigho — I  feel  just  like  a  cat  in  want  of  a  mouse 
to  torment.  I  wish  I  knew  a  victim  worthy  to  ex 
ercise  my  talents  upon." 

"  Talons,  you  mean,"  retorted  Fanny — "  I  pity 
him." 

"  He  would  get  used  to  it,"  said  Kate ;  :;  the 
mouse — the  husband,  you  know — I  should  let  him 
run  a  little  way,  and  then  clap  my  claws  on  him. 
I  've  seen  it  tried ;  it  works  like  a  charm." 

"Kate,  why  do  you  always  choose  to  wear  a 
mask  ?"  asked  Fanny ;  "  why  do  you  take  so  much 
pains  to  make  a  censorious  world  believe  you  the 
very  opposite  of  what  you  are  ?" 

"Because  paste  passes  as  current  as  diamond; 
because  I  value  the  world's  opinion  not  one  straw  ; 
because  if  you  own  a  heart,  it  is  best  to  hide  it,  un 
less  you  want  it  trampled  on.  But  I  don't  ask  you 
to  subscribe  to  all  this,  Fanny,  with  that  incompar 
able  Cousin  John  in  your  thoughts ;  there  he  is — 
there  's  the  door-bell — Venus !  how  you  blush !  but 
1  a  stoop  in  the  shoulders.'  How  can  you,  Fanny  ? 
Thirty-six  years  old,  too — Lord  bless  us  !" 


FANNY    FORD.  201 


CHAPTER    XX. 

WAS  this  u  little  Fanny  ?"  this  tall,  graceful  crea 
ture  of  seventeen,  the  little  thing  who  bade  him 
good-by  at  Mrs.  Chubb's  door,  ten  years  since,  with 
her  pinafore  stuffed  in  the  corner  of  her  eye  ? 
c:  Little  Fanny,"  with  that  queenly  presence  ? 
Cousin  John  almost  felt  as  if  he  ought  to  ask  leave 
to  touch  her  hand ;  ah — she  is  the  same  little  Fanny 
after  all — frank,  guileless,  and  free-hearted.  She 
flies  into  his  arms,  puts  up  her  rosy  lips  for  a  kiss, 
and  says  "  Dear  Cousin  John." 

"  Grod  bless  you,"  was  all  he  could  find  voice  to 
say,  for  in  truth,  she  was  Mary's  own  self. 

Yes — Fanny  was  very  lovely,  with  those  rippling 
waves  of  silken  hair,  and  the  light  and  shadow, 
flitting  like  summer  clouds  over  her  speaking 
face.  Cousin  John  held  her  off  at  arm's  length. 
Yes,  she  was  very  lovely.  "  How  much  she  had 
changed !" 

"  And  you,  too,"  said  Fanny,  seating  herself  be 
side  him.  "  You  look  so  much  better ;  the  stoop  in 
your  shoulders  is  quite  gone  ;  you  are  bronzed  a  lit 
tle,  but  all  the  better  for  that." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Cousin  John,  "  more  especially 
as  I  could  not  help  it,  not  even  to  please  'little 
Fanny.'  " 

"  Ah — but  I  am  no  longer  little  Fanny,"  she  said, 
blushing  slightly.  "  I  have  crammed  a  great  many 


202  FRESH    LEAVES. 

books  into  my  head  since  I  saw  you,  and  done  con 
siderable  thinking  beside." 

"  And  what  has  your  thinking  all  amounted  to  ?" 
asked  Cousin  John,  half  playfully,  half  seriously. 

"  Just  to  this — that  you  are  the  very  best  cousin 
in  the  world,  and  that  I  never  can  repay  you  for  all 
you  have  been  to  the  poor,  little  friendless  orphan," 
said  Fanny,  with  brimming  eyes. 

"  G-od  bless  you,"  said  Cousin  John.  "  I  am  more 
than  repaid  in  these  last  ten  minutes." 

Hours  flew  like  seconds,  while  Percy  narrated 
his  adventures  by  sea  and  land,  and  listened  to 
Fanny's  account  of  herself;  the  old  duenna,  mean 
while,  walking  uneasily  up  and  down  the  hall,  occa 
sionally  making  an  errand  into  the  sitting-room,  and 
muttering  to  herself  as  she  went  out,  that  she  had 
heard  before  of  boarding-school  "  cousins,"  and  that 
he  was  altogether  too  handsome  a  man  to  be  al 
lowed  such  a  long  tete-a-tete  with  Miss  Fanny  j  and 
so  she  reported  at  head-quarters,  but  the  Principal 
being  just  then  unfortunately  engaged  in  examining 
a  new  French  teacher,  who  had  applied  for  employ 
ment,  could  not  give  the  affair  the  attention  Miss 
Miffit  insisted  upon. 

Mr.  Thurston  Grey,  too,  was  on  the  anxious  seat ; 
for  the  mischievous  Kate  had  informed  him  "  that 
Fanny  was  holding  a  protracted  meeting  in  the  best 
parlor,  with  the  handsomest  man  she  ever  saw." 

Nothing  like  a  rival  to  precipitate  matters !  The 
declaration  which  had  so  long  been  trembling  on 


FANNY    FORD.  '206 

Mr.  Grey's  lips,  found  its  way  into  a  billet-doux,  and 
was  forwarded  to  Fanny  that  very  night,  and  pre 
sented  by  Kate  in  the  presence  of  Cousin  John,  "  to 
test,"  as  she  said,  "  the  quality  of  his  cousin-ship.'-' 

Cousin  John  was  not  jealous  of  "  little  Fanny !" 
how  absurd  !  Little  Fanny !  whom  he  had  carried 
in  his  arms,  who  had  slept  on  his  breast.  In  fact  he 
laughed  quite  merrily  at  the  idea,  louder  than  was 
at  all  necessary  to  convince  himself  of  the  nonsense 
of  the  thing,  when  he  read  Mr.  Grey's  proposal; 
(for  Fanny  had  no  secrets  from  "  Cousin  John.") 
True  he  wouud  up  his  watch  twice  that  morning, 
and  put  on  odd  stockings,  and  found  it  quite  impos 
sible  to  decide  which  of  his  cravats  he  should  wear 
that  day,  and  looked  in  the  glass  very  attentively 
for  some  time,  and  forgot  to  smoke,  but  he  was  n't 
jealous  of  little  Fanny.  Of  course  he  wasn't! 

CHAPTER     XXI. 

"  A  GIN-SLING,  waiter !  Strong,  hot,  and  quick ; 
none  of  your  temperance  mixtures  for  me ;  AND 
waiter,  here,  a  beef-steak  smothered  in  onions ;  AND 
waiter,  some  crackers  and  cheese,  and  be  deuced 
quick  about  it,  too.  I  'm  not  a  man  to  be  trifled, 
with  as  somebody  besides  you  will  find  out,  I  fancy," 
said  Mr.  Scraggs,  hitching  his  heels  to  the  mantel,  as 
the  waiter  closed  the  door. 

Mr.  Scraggs  was  a  plethoric,  pursy,  barrel-looking 
individual,  with  a  peony  complexion,  pink,  piggy 


204  FRESH    LEAVES. 

eyes,  and  a  nose  sky-wardly  inclined.  His  neck 
cloth  was  flashy  and  greasy  j  his  scarlet  vest  fes 
tooned  with  a  mock  chain ;  his  shirt  bosom  fastened 
with  green  studs,  and  his  nether  limbs  encased  in  a 
pair  of  snake-skin  pantaloons.  As  the  waiter  closed 
the  door  to  execute  his  order,  he  delivered  himself 
of  the  following  soliloquy,  between  the  whiffs  of  his 
cigar : 

"  Ha-ha !  pardoned  out,  was  he  ?  turned  peddler, 
did  he  ?  fathered  the  little  gal,  and  sold  tape  to  pay 
her  board,  hey  ?  put  hei\  to  boarding-school,  and 
went  to  New  Orleans  to  seek  his  fortin'  ?  got  ship 
wrecked  and  robbed,  and  the  Lord  knows  what, 
and  then  started  for  Californy  for  better  luck,  did 
he  ?  Stuck  to  gold-digging  like  a  mole — made  his 
fortin',  and  then  came  back  to  marry  the  little  gal, 
hey  ?  That  '11  be  as  /  say.  She's  a  pretty  gal — may 
I  be  shot,  if  she  ain't;  a  deuced  pretty  gal— but 
she  don't  come  between  me  and  my  revenge.  Not 
'xactly !  That  blow  you  struck  in  the  prison,  my 
fine  fellow,  is  not  forgotten  quite  yet.  John  Scraggs 
has  a  way  of  putting  them  little  things  on  file. 
Hang  me  if  it  don't  burn  on  my  cheek  yet.  Your 
fine  broadcloth  suit  don't  look  much  like  your  red 
and  blue  prison  uniform,  Mr.  Percy  Lee.  Your 
crop  of  curly  black  hair  is  rather  more  becoming 
than  your  shaven  crown ;  wonder  what  your  pretty 
love  would  say  if  she  knew  all  that  ?  if  she  knew 
she  was  going  to  marry  the  man  who  killed  her  own 
mother  ?  and,  pretty  as  she  is,  by  the  eternal,  she 


FANNY    FORD.  205 

• 

shall  know  it.  But,  patience — John  Scraggs ;  a  lit 
tle  more  billing  and  cooing  first ;  a  little  more  sugar 
before  the  drop  of  gall  brims  over  the  cup.  Furnish 
the  fine  house  you  have  taken,  Mr.  Percy  Lee,  pile 
up  the  satin  and  damask,  and  picters,  and  statters, 
and  them  things — chuckle  over  the  happiness  you 
are  not  a  going  to  have — for  by  the  eternal,  the  gal 
may  go  the  way  the  mother  did,  but  my  hand  shall 
crush  you;  and  yet,  I  ain't  got  nothing  agin  the  gal, 
neither :  she's  as  pretty  a  piece  of  flesh  and  blood  as 
I  've  seen  this  many  a  day.  A  delicate  mate  for  a 
jail-bird,  ha — ha." 

••Waiter!  waiter!  another  gin-sling;  hotter  and 
stronger  than  the  last ;  'gad — fire  itself  would  n't  be 
too  strong  for  me  to  swallow  to-day.  Percy  Lee's 
wedding-day,  is  it  ?  We  shall  see ! 

<:  He  will  curl  his  fine  hair,  don  his  broad-cloth 
suit,  satin  vest  and  white  gloves ;  look  at  his  watch, 
and  be  in  a  devil  of  a  hurry,  won't  he  ?  ha — ha. 
He  will  get  into  a  carriage  with  his  dainty  bride, 
and  love  her  all  the  better  for  her  blushing  and  quiv 
ering;  he  will  look  into  her  pretty  face  till  he  would 
sell  his  very  soul  for  her ;  he  will  lead  her  by  the 
tips  of  her  little  white  gloved  fingers  into  church  ; 
then  they  '11  kneel  before  the  parson,  and  he  will 
promise  all  sorts  of  infernal  lies.  Then  the  minister 
will  say,  l  if  any  one  present  knows  any  reason  why 
these  two  should  n't  be  joined  in  the  holy  state  of 
matrimony,  let  /  im  speak,  or  forever  after  hold  his 
peace.' 


206  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"  Then  is  your  time,  John  Scraggs — leap  to  his 
side  like  ten  thousand  devils ;  hiss  in  the  gal's  ear 
that  her  lover  is  a  jail-bird — that  he's  her  mother's 
murderer — laugh  when  she  shrinks  from  his  side  in 
horror,  and  falls  like  one  stone  dead ;  for  by  the 
eternal,  John  Scraggs  is  the  man  to  do  all  that — and 
yet  I  ain't  got  nothing  agin  the  gal  either. 

"But,  stay  a  bit;  that  will  be  dispatching  the 
rascal  too  quick  I  '11  make  slower  work  of  it.  I  '11 
prolong  his  misery.  I'll  watch  him  writhe  and 
twist  like  a  lion  in  a  net.  I  '11  let  the  marriage  go 
on — I  '11  not  interrupt  it ;  and  then  I  '11  make  it  the 
hottest  hell !  The  draught  shall  be  ever  within 
reach  of  his  parched  lips,  and  yet,  he  shall  never 
taste  it ;  for  his  little  wife  shall  curse  him.  She  shall 
be  ever  before  him,  in  her  tempting,  dainty  beauty, 
and  yet  a  great  gulf  shall  separate  them.  That's 
it — slow  torture ;  patience — I  won't  dispatch  him 
all  at  once.  I  '11  lop  off  first  a  hand,  then  a  foot, 
pluck  out  an  eye,  touch  up  a  quivering  nerve,  maim 
him — mangle  him — let  him  die  a  thousand  deaths  in 
one.  Good !  I  '11  teach  the  aristocrat  to  fell  me  to 
the  earth  like  a  hound.  A  jail-bird — ha,  ha ;  salt 
pork  and  mush,  instead  of  trout  cooked  in  claret ; 
water  in  a  rusty  tin  cup,  instead  of  old  Madeira,  and 
Hock,  and  Sherry,  and  Champagne.  Mush  and  salt 
pork — ha,  ha.  Too  cursed  good,  though,  for  the 
dainty  dog.  I  wish  I  'd  been  warden  of  the  Bluff 
Hill  prison.  I'd  have  lapped  up  his  aristocratic 
blood,  drop  by  drop." 


FANNY    FORD.  207 


CHAPTER     XXII. 

':MiNE  forever,"  whispered  Percy,  as  lie  drew 
Fanny's  hand  within  his  arm,  on  their  wedding 
morning,  and  led  her  to  the  carriage. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  on  the  way ;  even  the 
rattling  Kate  vailed  her  merry  eyes  under  their  soft 
lashes,  and  her  woman's  heart,  true  to  itself,  sent  up 
a  prayer  for  the  orphan's  happy  future.  And  Per 
cy  ;  he  was  to  be  all  to  Fanny — father,  brother,  hus 
band  ;  there  were  none  to  divide  with  him  the 
treasure  he  so  jealously  coveted. 

Happy  Percy!  The  lightning  bolt,  indeed,  had 
fallen ;  riving  the  stately  tree,  dissevering  its 
branches,  but  again  it  is  covered  with  verdure  and 
blossoms,  for  lo — the  cloud  has  rolled  away,  the 
rainbow  arches  the  blue  sky,  and  hopes,  like  flow 
ers,  sweeter  and  fresher  for  nature's  tears,  are  spring 
ing  thick  in  his  pathway.  -  " 

All  this  and  more,  passed  through  Percy's  mind 
as  he  watched  the  shadows  come  and  go  on  Fanny's 
changeful  cheek. 

"  G-et  out  of  the  way,"  thundered  the  coachman, 
to  a  man  who,  with  slouched  hat,  and  Lucifer-ish 
frown,  stood  before  the  carriage.  "  Get  out  of  the 
way,  I  say;"  and  he  cracked  his  whip  over  his 
shoulders.  "  Staring  into  the  carriage  window  that 
way,  at  a  young  'oman  as  is  going  to  be  married. 
Get  out  of  the  way !" 


208  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"  Go  to ,"  muttered  the  man.     "  Get  out  of 

the  way !  ha — that's  good — it  will  be  a  long  time 
before  /  get  out  of  the  way,  I  can  promise  you. 
But,  drive  on — drive  on — I'll  overtake  you — and 
ride  over  you  all,  too,  rough-shod,  hang  me,  if  I 
don't.  '  The  horns  of  the  altar,'  as  the  ministers  call 
it,  will  prove  the  horn  of  a  dilemma  to  you,  Mr. 
Percy  Lee,  or  there  was  no  strength  in  the  horn  I 
swallowed  this  morning." 

The  words  were  said  which  never  may  be  un 
said  ;  the  twain  were  one — -joy  to  share  together — 
sorrow  to  bear  together — smooth  or  rough  the  path, 
life's  journey  to  travel  together.  A  few  words  from 
holy  lips — a  short  transit  of  the  dial's  fingers — a 
blush — perchance  a  tear — a  low  response — and 
heaven  or  hell,  even  in  this  world,  was  to  be  their 
portion. 

The  bridal  party  turn  from  the  altar.  Through 
the  stained  windows — under  the  grand  arches — 
past  the  flutecl  pillars,  the  dim  light  slants  lovingly 
upon  the  soft  ripples  of  the  young  bride's  hair — 
upon  the  fleecy  folds  of  her  gossamer  vail — upon 
the  sheen  of  her  bridal  robe ;  the  little  satin  shoe 
peeps  in  and  out  from  under  the  lustrous  fold?, 
whose  every  rustle  is  music  to  Fercy's  ear. 

Kark !  Fanny's  lip  loses  its  rose — as  she  clings, 
tremblingly,  to  Percy's  arm.  A  scuffle — curses — 
shouting — the  report  of  a  pistol — then  a  heavy  fall 
— then  a  low  groan ! 


FANNY    FORD.  209 

"  Is  he  quite  dead  ?     Does  his  pulse  beat?" 

"  Not  a  flutter,"  said  the  policeman,  laying  the 
man's  head  back  upon  the  church  steps. 

"  How  did  it  happen  ?" 

'•  Well,  you  see,  he  was  intoxicated  like,  and 
'sisted  upon  coming  in  here,  to  see  the  wedding, 
though  I  told  him  it  was  a  private  'un.  Then  he 
muttered  something  about  jail-birds  and  the  like  'o 
that — intending  to  insinivate  something  ag'in  me,  I 
s'pose,  Well,  I  took  him  by  the  shoulder  to  carry 
him  to  the  station-house,  and  in  the  scuffle,  a  loaded 
pistol  he  had  about  him  went  off;  and  that's  the 
end  of  him.  His  name  is  in  his  hat,  there.  '  John 
Scraggs.'  A  ruffianly-looking  dog  he  is,  too ;  the 
world  is  none  the  worse,  I  fancy,  for  his  being  out 
of  it." 

As  at  the  birth,  so  at  the  bridal,  Life  and  Death 
passed  each  other  on  the  threshold ;  new-born  love 
to  its  full  fruition ;  the  still  corpse  to  its  long 
home. 

There  are  homes  in  which  Love  folds  his  wings 
contented  forever  to  stay.  Such  a  home  had  Fanny 
and  Percy. 

"  The  love  born  of  sorrow,  like  sorrow  is  true." 

14 


210  FRESH    LEAVES. 

MORAL    MOLASSES; 

OR;    TOO    SWEET   BY   HALF. 

THE  most  thorough  emetic  I  know  of,  is  in  the 
shape  of  "  Guide  to  Young  Wives/'  and  kindred 
books ;  as  if  one  rule  could,  by  any  possibility,  ap 
ply  to  all  persons  ;  as  if  every  man  living  did  not 
require  different  management  (bless  me,  I  did  not 
intend  to  use  that  torpedo  word,  but  it  is  out  now)  ; 
as  if,  when  things  go  wrong,  a  wife  had  only  to  fly 
up  stairs,  read  a  chapter  in  the  "  Young  Wife's 
Guide,"  supposed  to  be  suited  to  her  complaint,  and 
then  go  down  stairs  and  apply  the  worthless  plaster 
to  the  matrimonial  sore.  Pshaw  !  as  well  might  a 
doctor  send  a  peck  of  pills  into  a  hospital,  to  be  dis 
tributed  by  the  hands  of  the  nurse,  to  any  and  every 
male  patient  brought  there,  without  regard  to  com 
plaints  or  constitutional  tendencies.  I  have  no  pa 
tience  with  such  matrimonial  nostrums. 

"  Always  meet  your  husband  with  a  smile." 
That  is  one  of  them.  Suppose  we  put  the  boot 
on  the  other  foot,  and  require  the  men  to  come 
grinning  home  ?  no  matter  how  many  of  their  notes 
may  have  been  protested ;  no  matter  how,  like 
Beelzebub,  their  business  partner  may  have  tor 
mented  them  ;  no  matter  how  badly  elections  go— 
when  they  do  it,  may  I  be  there  to  see!  Nor 
should  they.  Passing  over  the  everlasting  mo 
notony  of  that  everlasting  u  Guide  Book"  smile,  let 


MORAL    MOLASSES.  211 

us  consider,  brethren  (sisters  not  admitted),  what 
matrimony  was  intended  for.  As  I  look  at  it,  as 
much  to  share  each  other's  sorrows,  as  to  share 
each  other's  joys ;  neither  of  the  twain  to  shoulder 
wholly  the  one  or  the  other.  Those  of  you,  breth 
ren,  who  agree  with  me  in  this  lucid  view  of  the 
subject,  please  to  signify  it  by  rising. 

'Tis  a  vote. 

Well  then,  do  people  in  moments  of  perplexity 
generally  grin  ?  Is  it  not  asking  too  much  of  female, 
and  a  confounded  sight  too  much  of  male  nature,  to 
do  it  when  a  man's  store  burns  down,  and  there  is 
no  insurance  ?  or  when  a  misguided  and  infatuated 
baby  stuffs  beans  up  its  nose,  while  its  mamma  is 
putting  new  cuffs  on  her  husband's  coat,  hearing 
Katy  say  her  lesson,  and  telling  the  cook  about  din 
ner  ?  And  when  this  sorely  afflicted  couple  meet, 
would  it  not  be  best  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  their 
troubles,  sympathize  together  over  them,  have  a  nice 
matrimonial  cry  on  each  other's  shoulders,  and  wind 
up  with  a  first-class  kiss  ? 

'Tis  a  vote. 

Well  then — to  the  mischief  with  your  grinning 
over  a  volcano ; — erupt,  and  have  done  with  it !  so 
shall  you  love  each  other  more  for  your  very  sor 
rows  ;  so  shall  you  avoid  hypocrisy  and  kindred 
bedevilments,  and  pull  evenly  in  the  matrimonial 
harness.  I  speak  as  unto  wise  men. 

Lastry,  brethren,  what  I  particularly  admire,  is 
the  indirect  compliment  to  your  sex,  which  this  ab- 


212  FRESH    LEAVES. 

surd  rule  I  have  quoted  implies ;  the  devotion,  mag 
nanimity,  fortitude,  and  courage,  it  gives  you  fair- 
weather  sailors  credit  for !  But  what  is  the  use  of 
talking  about  it?  These  guide  books  are  mainly 
written  by  sentimental  old  maids ;  who,  had  they 
ever  been  within  kissing  distance  of  a  beard,  would 
not  so  abominably  have  wasted  pen,  ink,  and  paper ; 
or,  by  some  old  bachelor,  tip-toeing  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  promised  land,  without  a  single  clear  idea  of 
its  resources  and  requirements,  or  courage  enough 
to  settle  there  if  he  had. 


A  WOED  TO  SHOP-KEEPERS. 

IN  one  respect — nay,  in  more,  if  so  please  you — 
I  am  unfeminine.  I  detest  shopping.  I  feel  any 
thing  but  affection  for  Eve  every  time  I  am  forced 
to  do  it.  But  we  must  be  clean  and  whole,  even  in 
this  dirt-begrimed,  lawless  city;  where  ash-barrels 
and  ash-boxes,  with  spikes  of  protruding  nails  for 
the  unwary,  stand  on  every  sidewalk,  waiting  the 
bidding  of  balmy  zephyrs  to  sift  their  dusky  contents 
on  our  luckless  clothes.  All  the  better  for  shop 
keepers  ;  indeed,  I  am  not  at  all  sure,  that  they  and 
the  street-cleaning  gentry  do  not,  as  doctors  and 
druggists  are  said  to  do,  play  into  each  other's  hands ! 

Apart  from  my  natural  and  never- to-be-uprooted 
dislike  to  the  little  feminine  recreation  of  shop- 


A    WORD    TO    SHOP-KEEPERS.  213 

ping,  is  the  pain  I  experience  whenever  I  am  forced  to 
take  part  in  it,  at  the  snubbing  system  practiced  by 
too  many  shop-keepers  toward  those  whose  neces 
sities  demand  a  frugal  outlay.  Any  frivolous  female 
fool,  be  she  showily  dressed,  may  turn  a  whole  store- 
full  of  goods,  topsy-turvy  at  her  capricious  will,  al 
though  she  may  end  in  taking  nothing  away  but 
her  own  idiotic  presence ;  while  a  poor,  industrious 
woman,  with  the  hardly-earned  dollar  in  her  calico 
pocket,  may  not  presume  to  deliberate,  or  to  differ 
from  the  clerk  as  to  its  most  frugal  investment.  My 
blood  often  boils  as  I  stand  side  by  side  with  such 
a  one.  I,  by  virtue  of  better  apparel,  receiving  re 
spectful  treatment;  she — crimsoning  with  shame, 
like  some  guilty  thing,  at  the  rude  reply. 

Now,  gentlemen,  imagine  yourselves  in  this 
woman's  place.  /  have  no  need  to  do  so,  because 
I  have  stood  there.  Imagine  her,  with  her  father 
less,  hungry  children  by  her  side,  plying  the  needle 
late  into  the  night,  for  the  pitiful  sum  of  seventy-five 
cents  a  week,  as  I  once  did.  Imagine  her,  with 
this  discouraging  price  of  her  eye-sight  and  strength, 
creeping  forth  with  her  little  child  by  the  hand, 
peeping  cautiously  through  the  glass  windows  of 
stores,  to  decide  unobtrusively  upon  fabrics  and 
labeled  prices,  or  vainly  trying  to  read  human  feel 
ing  enough  in  their  owners'  faces  to  insure  her  from 
contemptuous  insult  at  the  smallness  and  cheapness 
of  her  contemplated  purchase.  At  length,  with 
many  misgivings,  she  glides  in  amid  rustling  silks 


214  FRESH    LEAVES. 

and  laces,  that  drape  hearts  which  God  made  woman 
ly  and  tender  like  her  own,  but  which  Fashion  and 
Mammon  have  crushed  to  ashes  in  their  vice-like 
clasp  j  hearts  which  never  knew  a  sorrow  greater 
than  a  misfitting  dress,  or  a  badly-matched  ribbon, 
and  whose  owners'  lips  curl  as  the  new-comer  holds 
thoughtfully  between  her  thin  fingers  the  despised 
.  fabric,  carelessly  tossed  at  her  by  the  impatient  clerk. 

Oh,  how  can  you  speak  harshly  to  such  a  one  ? 
how  can  you  drive  the  blood  from  her  lip,  and  bring 
the  tear  to  her  eye  ?  how  can  you  look  sneeringly 
at  the  little  sum  she  places  in  your  hand,  so  hardly, 
virtuously^  bravely  earned  ?  She  has  seen  you  ! — 
see  her,  as  she  turns  away,  clasping  so  tightly  that 
little  hand  in  hers,  that  the  pained  child  would  tear 
fully  ask  the  reason,  were  it  not  prematurely  sor 
row-trained. 

Oh,  you  have  never  (reversing  the  order  of  nature) 
leaned  with  a  breaking  heart  upon  a  little  child,  for 
the  comfort  and  sympathy  that  you  found  nowhere  else 
in  the  wide  world  beside.  You  never  wound  your 
arms  about  her  in  the  silent  night,  drenching  brow, 
cheek  and  lip  with  your  tears,  as  you  prayed  God, 
in  your  wild  despair,  dearly  as  you  loved  her,  to  take 
her  to  himself;  for,  living,  she,  too,  must  drink  of 
the  cup  that  might  not  pass  away  from  your  sorrow- 
steeped  lips. 

It  is  because  I  have  felt  all  this  that  I  venture  to 
bespeak  your  more  courteous  treatment  for  these 
unfortunates  who  can  only  weep  for  themselves. 


A  MINISTER'S  WIFE.  215 

A  MUCH-NEEDED  KIND  OF  MINISTER'S  WIPE ; 

OB,   A  HAIB-B3EADTII   ESCAPE    FOR    SOME    PAEISH. 

I  ONCE  had  a  narrow  escape  from  being  a  minster's 
wife.  No  wonder  you  laugh.  Imagine  a  vestry- 
meeting  called  to  decide  upon  the  width  of  my  bon 
net-strings,  or  the  proper  altitude  of  the  bow  on  that 
bonnet's  side.  Imagine  my  being  called  to  an  ac 
count  for  asking  Mrs.  A.  to  tea,  without  including 
the  rest  of  the  alphabet.  Imagine  my  parishioners 
expecting  me  to  attend  a  meeting  of  the  Dorcas 
Society  in  the  morning,  the  Tract  Society  in  the 
afternoon,  and  the  Foreign  Mission  Society  in  the 
evening,  five  days  in  the  week — and  make  parish 
calls  on  the  sixth — besides  keeping  the  buttons  on 
my  husband's  shirts,  and  taking  care  of  my  "  nine 
children,  and  one  at  the  breast."  Imagine  a  self- 
constituted  committee  of  female  Paul  Prys  running 
their  arms  up  to  the  elbows  in  my  pickle-jar — rum 
maging  my  cupboards — cross-questioning  my  maid- 
of-all-work,  and  catechizing  my  grocer  as  to  the  price 
1  paid  for  tea.  Imagine  my  ministerial  progeny 
prohibited  chess  and  checkers  by  the  united  voice 
of  the  parish.  Christopher  I 

Still,  the  world  lost  a  great  deal  by  my  non-ac 
ceptance  of  that  "  call."  What  would  I  have  done  ? 
I  would  not,  on  Saturday  afternoon  (that  holiday 
which  should  never,  on  any  pretext,  be  wrested 


216  FRESH    LEAVES. 

from  our  over-schooled,  over-taught,  children),  have 
put  the  finishing  touch  to  the  crook  in  their  poor 
little  spines,  by  drumming  them  all  into  a  Juvenile 
Sewing  Society,  to  stitch  pinafores  for  the  Kanka- 
roo  heathen.  What  would  I  have  done  ?  I  would 
have  ate,  drunk,  slept,  and  laughed,  like  any  other 
decent  man's  wife.  I  would  have  educated  my 
children  as  do  other  men's  wives,  to  suit  myself, 
which  would  have  been  to  turn  them  out  to  grass 
till  they  were  seven  years  old,  before  which  time  no 
child,  in  my  opinion,  should  ever  see  the  inside  of  a 
school-room;  and  after  that,  given  them  study  in 
homoeopathic,  and  exercise  in  allopathic  quantities. 
I  would  have  taken  the  liberty,  as  do  other  men's 
wives,  when  family  duties  demanded  it,  to  send 
word  to  morning  callers  that  I  "  was  engaged."  I 
should  have  taken  a  walk  on  Sunday,  if  my  health 
required  it,  without  asking  leave  of  the  deacons  of 
my  parish.  I  would  have  gone  into  my  husband's 
study,  every  Saturday  night,  and  crossed  out  every 
line  in  his  forthcoming  sermon,  after  "  sixthly"  I 
would  have  encouraged  a  glorious  beard  on  my  hus 
band's  sacerdotal  chin,  not  under  the  cowardly  plea 
of  a  preventive  to  a  possible  bronchitis,  but  because 
a  minister's  wife  has  as  much  right  to  a  good-look 
ing  husband  as  a  lay-woman.  I  would  have  in 
vited  all  the  children  in  my  parish  to  drink  tea  with 
me  once  a  week,  to  play  hunt  the  slipper,  and  make 
molasses  candy  ;  and  I  would  have  made  them  each 
a  rag-baby  to  look  at,  while  their  well-meaning,  but 


PARENT    AND    CHILD.  21 7 

infatuated  Sunday-school  teachers,  were  bothering 
their  brains  with  the  doctrine  of  election.  That's 
what  /  would  have  done. 


PARENT      AND      CHILD: 

OR,    WHICH     SHALL     RULE. 

"  G-IVE  me  two  cents,  I  say,  or  I'll  kick  you  !" 
I  turned  to  look  at  the  threatener.  It  was  a  little 
fellow  about  as  tall  as  my  sun-shade,  stamping  de 
fiance  at  a  fine,  matronly-looking  woman,  who  must 
have  been  his  mother,  so  like  were  her  large  black 
eyes  to  the  gleaming  orbs  of  the  boy.  "  Give  me 
two  cents,  I  say,  or  I'll  kick  you,"  he  repeated,  tug 
ging  fiercely  at  her  silk  dress  to  find  the  pocket, 
while  every  feature  in  his  handsome  face  was  dis 
torted  with  passion.  Surely  she  will  not  do  it,  said 
I  to  myself,  anxiously  awaiting  the  issue,  as  I  appa 
rently  examined  some  ribbons  in  a  shop-window ; 
surely  she  will  not  be  so  mad,  so  foolish,  so  untrue 
to  herself,  so  untrue  to  her  child,  so  belie  the  beau 
tiful  picture  of  healthy  maternity,  so  God-impressed 
in  that  finely-developed  form  and  animated  face. 
Oh,  if  I  might  speak  to  her,  and  beg  her  not  to  do 
it,  thought  I,  as  she  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket,  and 
the  fierce  look  died  away  on  the  boy's  face,  and  was 
succeeded  by  one  of  triumph ;  if  I  might  tell  her 
that  she  is  fostering  the  noisome  weeds  that  will 


218  FRESH    LEAVES. 

surely  choke  the  flowers — sowing  the  wind  to  reap 
the  whirlwind. 

"But  the  boy  is  so  passionate ;  it  is  less  trouble  to 
grant  his  request  than  to  deny  him."  Granting  this 
were  so ;  who  gave  you  a  right  to  weigh  your  own 
ease  in  the  balance  with  your  child's  soul  ?  Who 
gave  you  a  right  to  educate  him  for  a  convict's  cell, 
or  the  gallows  ?  But,  thoughtless,  weakly  indulgent, 
cruel-kind  mother,  it  is  not  easier,  as  you  selfishly, 
short-si ghtedly  reason,  to  grant  his  request  than  to 
deny  it ;  not  easier  for  him — not  easier  for  you. 
The  appetite  for  rule  grows  by  what  it  feeds  on.  Is 
he  less  domineering  now  than  he  was  yesterday  ? 
Will  he  be  less  so  to-morrow  than  he  is  to-day  ? 
Certainly  not. 

"  But  I  have  not  time  to  contest  every  inch  of 
ground  with  him."  Take  time  then — make  time; 
neglect  every  thing  else,  but  neglect  not  that.  With 
every  child  comes  this  turning  point :  Which  shall 
le  the  victor — my  mother  or  I?  and  it  must  be  met. 
She  is  no  true  mother  who  dodges  or  evades  it. 
True — there  will  be  a  fierce  struggle  at  first ;  but  be 
firm  as  a  rock  ;  recede  not  one  inch ;  there  may  be 
two,  three,  or  even  more,  but  the  battle  once  won, 
as  won  it  shall  be  if  you  are  a  faithful  mother,  it  is 
won  for  this  world — ay,  perhaps  for  another. 

"But  I  am  not  at  liberty  to  control  him  thus; 
when  parents  do  not  pull  together  in  the  harness, 
the  reins  of  government  will  slacken ;  when  I  would 
restrain  and  correct  him,  his  father  interferes ;  chil- 


PARENT    AND    CHILD.  219 

dred  are  quick-witted,  and  my  boy  sees  his  advan 
tage.  What  can  I  do,  unsustained  and  single- 
handed  ?"  True — true — G-od  help  the  child  then. 
Better  for  him  had  he  never  been  born ;  better  for 
you  both,  for  so  surely  as  the  beard  grows  upon 
that  little  chin,  so  surely  shall  he  bring  your  gray 
hairs  with  sorrow  to  the  grave  ;  and  so  surely  shall 
he  curse  you  for  your  very  indulgence,  before  he  is 
placed  in  the  dishonored  one  your  parental  hands  are 
digging  for  him. 

These  things  need  not  be — ought  not  to  be.  Oh ! 
if  parents  had  but  a  firm  hand  to  govern,  and  yet  a 
ready  ear  for  childish  sympathy;  if  they  would 
agree — whatever  they  might  say  in  private — never 
to  differ  in  presence  of  their  children,  as  to  their 
government ;  if  the  dissension-breeding  "  Joseph's 
coat"  were  banished  from  every  hearthstone ;  if 
there  were  less  weak  indulgence  and  less  asceticism  ; 
if  the  bow  were  neither  entirely  relaxed,  nor  strained 
so  tightly  that  it  broke  ;  if  there  were  less  out-door 
dissipation,  and  more  home-pleasures;  if  parents 
would  not  forget  that  they  were  once  children,  nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  forget  that  their  children  will  be 
one  day  parents ;  if  there  were  less  form  of  godli 
ness,  and  more  godliness  (for  children  are  Argus- 
eyed  ;  it  is  not  what  you  preach,  but  what  you 
practice),  we  should  then  have  no  beardless  skeptics, 
no  dissolute  sons,  no  runaway  marriages,  no  icy 
barriers  between  those  rocked  in  the  same  cradle — 
nursed  at  the  same  breast. 


220  FRESH  LEA\ES. 


THE  LAST  BACHELOR  HOURS  OF  TOM 
PAX. 

TO-MORROW,  at  eleven,  then,  I  am  to  be  married ! 
I  feel  like  a  mouse  conscious  of  coming  cheese.  Is 
it  usual  for  bachelors  to  feel  this  way,  or  am  I  a  pe 
culiar  institution  ?  I  trust  the  parson,  being  himself 
a  married  man,  will  be  discreet  enough  to  make  a 
short  prayer  after  the  ceremony.  Good  gracious, 
my  watch  has  stopped  !  no  it  hasn't,  either ;  I  should 
like  to  put  the  hands  forward  a  little.  What  to  do 
with  myself  till  the  time  comes,  that's  the  question. 
It  is  useless  to  go  over  to  Mary's — she  is  knee-deep 
in  dressmaker's  traps.  I  never  could  see,  when  one 
dress  is  sufficient  to  be  married  in,  the  need  women 
have  to  multiply  them  to  such  an  indefinite  extent. 
Think  of  postponing  a  man's  happiness  in  such  cir 
cumstances,  that  one  more  flounce  may  be  added  to 
a  dress !  Phew !  how  stifled  this  room  is !  I'll 
throw  up  the  window;  there  now — there  goes  a 
pane  of  glass ;  who  cares  ?  I  think  I  will  shave ; 
no  I  won't — I  should  be  sure  to  cut  my  chin — how 
my  hand  trembles.  I  wonder  wrhat  Mary  is  think 
ing  about  ?  bless  her  little  soul.  Well,  for  the  life 
of  me  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  Sup 
pose  I  write  down 

TOM   PAX'S   LAST    BACHELOR    WILL    AND    TESTAMENT. 

In  the  name  of  Cupid,  Amen. — I,  Tom  Pax,  being 
of  sound  mind,  and  in  immediate  prospect  of  matri- 


A  BACHELOR'S  WILL.  221 

mony  (praised  be  Providence  for  the  same),  and 
being  desirous  of  settling  my  worldly  affairs  while  I 
have  the  strength  and  capacity  to  do  so,  I  do,  with 
my  own  hand,  write,  make,  and  publish  this,  my  last 
Will  and  Testament : 

And  in  the  first  place,  and  principally,  I  commit 
my  heart  to  the  keeping  of  my  adorable  Mary,  and 
my  body  to  the  parson,  to  be  delivered  over  at  the 
discretion  of  my  groomsmen,  to  the  aforesaid  Mary  ; 
and  as  to  such  worldly  goods  as  a  kind  Providence  hath 
seen  fit  to  intrust  me  with,  I  dispose  of  the  same  in  the 
following  manner  (I  also  empower  my  executors  to 
sell  and  dispose  of  my  real  estate,  consisting  of 
empty  demijohns,  old  hats,  and  cigar  boxes,  and  in 
vest  the  proceeds  in  stocks  or  otherwise,  to  manage 
as  they  may  think  best  ]  all  of  which  is  left  to  their 
discretion)  : 

I  give  and  bequeath  to  Tom  Harris,  my  accom 
plice  in  single  blessedness,  my  porcelain  punch-bowl 
white  cotton  night-cap,  and  large  leathern  chair,  in 
whose  arms  I  first  renounced  bachelordom  and  all 
its  evil  works. 

I  give  and  bequeath  to  the  flames  the  yellow- 
covered  novels  and  plays  formerly  used  to  alleviate 
my  bachelor  pangs,  and  whose  attractions  fade  away 
before  the  scorching  sun  of  my  prospective  happi 
ness,  like  a  snow  wreath  between  a  pair  of  brass 
andirons. 

I  give  and  bequeath  to  Bridget  Donahue,  the 
chambermaid  of  this  lodging-house  (to  be  applied  to 


222  FRESH    LEAVES. 

stuffing  a  pin-cushion),  the  locks  of  female  hair, 
black,  chestnut,  brown,  and  tow-color,  to  be  found 
in  my  great  coat  breast  pocket. 

I  give  and  bequeath  to  my  washwoman,  Sally 
Mudge,  my  buttonless  shirts,  stringless  dickeys, 
.gossamer-ventilator  stockings,  and  unmended  gloves. 

I  give  and  bequeath  to  Denis  M'Fudge,  my  boot 
black,  my  half  box  of  unsmoked  Havanas,  which 
are  a  nuisance  in  my  hymeneal  nostrils. 

I  give  and  bequeath  to  my  benighted  and  uncon 
verted  bachelor  friend,  Sam  Scott,  my  miserable  and 
sinful  piejudices  against  the  blessed  institution  of 
matrimony,  and  may  Cupid,  of  his  infinite  loving- 
kindness,  take  pity  on  his  petrified  heart. 

In  witness  whereof,  I,  Torn  Pax,  the  Testator, 
hereunto  set  my  hand  and  seal,  as  my  last  Will 
and  Testament,  done  this  twelfth  day  of  January, 
in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand  eight  hundred 
and  fifty-six. 

TOM  PAX.  [L.S.] 

Witness,       ------     FANNY  FERN. 


TOM  PAX'S  CONJUGAL  SOLILOQUY. 

MRS.  PAX  is  an  authoress.  I  knew  it  when  I 
married  her.  I  liked  the  idea.  I  had  not  tried  it 
then.  I  had  not  a  clear  idea  what  it  was  to  have 
one's  wife  belong  to  the  public.  I  thought  mar- 


TOM    PAXS    CONJUGAL    SOLILOQUY.  223 

riage  was  marriage,  brains  not  excepted.  I  was 
mistaken.  Mrs.  Pax  is  very  kind :  I  don't  wish  to 
say  that  she  is  not.  Very  obliging:  I  would  not 
have  you  think  the  contrary ;  but  when  I  put  my 
arm  round  Mrs.  Pax's  waist,  and  say,  "  Mary,  I  love 
you,"  she  smiles  in  an  absent,  moonlight-kind  of  a 
way,  and  says,  "  Yes,  to-day  is  Wednesday,  is  it 
not  ?  I  must  write  an  article  for  *  The  Weekly 
Monopolizer'  to-day."  That  dampens  my  ardor; 
but  presently  I  say  again,  being  naturally  affection 
ate,  "Mary,  I  love  you;"  she  replies  (still  abstract 
edly),  "  Thank  yon,  how  do  you  think  it  will  do  to 
call  my  next  article  for  '  The  Weekly  Monopolizer,' 
'The  Stray  Waif?'" 

Mrs.  Pax  sews  on  all  my  shirt-buttons  with  the 
greatest  good  humor :  I  would  not  have  you  think 
she  does  not ;  but  with  her  thoughts  still  on  "  The 
Weekly  Monopolizer,"  she  sews  them  on  the  flaps, 
instead  of  the  wristbands.  This  is  inconvenient; 
still  Mrs.  Pax  is  kindness  itself;  I  make  no  com 
plaint. 

I  am  very  fond  of  walking.  After  dinner  I  say 
to  Mrs.  Pax,  "  Mary,  let  us  take  a  walk."  She  says, 
"  Yes,  certainly,  I  must  go  down  town  to  read  the 
proof  of  my  article  for  i  The  Monopolizer.'  "  So,  I 
go  down  town  with  Mrs.  Pax.  After  tea  I  say, 
"  Mary,  let  us  go  to  the  theater  to-night ;"  she  says, 
"  I  would  be  very  happy  to  go,  but  the  atmosphere 
is  so  bad  there,  the  gas  always  escapes,  and  my 
head  must  be  clear  to-morrow,  you  know,  for  I 


224  FRESH    LEAVES. 

have  to  write  the  last  chapter  of  my  forthcoming 
work,  ( Prairie  Life.'  "  So  I  stay  at  home  with  Mrs. 
Pax,  and  as  I  sit  down  by  her  on  the  sofa,  and  as 
nobody  comes  in,  I  think  that  this,  after  all,  is  bet 
ter,  (though  I  must  say  my  wife  looks  well  at  the 
Opera,  and  I  like  to  take  her  there).  I  put  my  arm 
around  Mrs.  Pax.  It  is  a  habit  I  have.  In  comes 
the  servant ;  and  brings  a  handful  of  letters  for  her 
by  mail,  directed  to  "  Julia  Jesamine !"  (that 's  my 
wife's  nom-de-plume).  I  remove  my  arm  from  her 
waist,  because  she  says  "  they  are  probably  business 
letters  which  require  immediate  notice."  She  sits 
down  at  the  table,  and  breaks  the  seals.  Four  of 
them  are  from  fellows  who  want  "her  autograph." 
Mrs.  Pax's  autograph  !  The  fifth  is  from  a  gentle 
man  who,  delighted  with  her  last  book,  which  he 
says  "  mirrored  his  own  soul"  (how  do  you  suppose 
Mrs.  Pax  found  out  how  to  "  mirror  his  soul?")  re 
quests  "permission  to  correspond  with  the  charming 
authoress."  "Charming!"  my  wife!  "his  soul!'' 
*'  Mrs.  Pax !  The  sixth  is  from  a  gentleman  who  de 
sires  "  the  loan  of  five  hundred  dollars,  as  he  has 
been  unfortunate  in  business,  and  has  heard  that  her 
works  have  been  very  remunerative."  Five  hun 
dred  dollars  for  John  Smith,  from  my  wife  I  The 
seventh  letter  is  from  a  man  at  the  West,  offering 
her  her  own  price  to  deliver  a  lecture  before  the 
Pigtown  Young  Men's  Institute.  Hike  that ! 

Mrs.  Pax  opens  her  writing  desk ;  it  is  one  I  gave 
her ;  takes  some  delicate  buff  note-paper ;    I  gave 


TOM    PAX'.S    CONJUGAL    SOLILOQUY.          225 

her  that,  too ;  dips  her  gold  pen  (my  gift)  into  the 
inkstand,  and  writes — writes  till  eleven  o'clock. 
Eleven!  and  I,  her  husband,  Tom  Pax,  sit  there 
and  wait  for  her. 

The  next  morning  when  I  awake,  I  say,  "  Mary 
dear  ?"  She  says,  "  Hush  !  don't  speak,  I  've  just 
got  a  capital  subject  to  write  about  for  '  The  Weekly 
Monopolizer.'  "  Not  that  I  am  complaining  of  Mrs. 
Pax,  not  at  all ;  not  that  I  don't  like  my  wife  to  be 
an  authoress  :  I  do.  To  be  sure  I  can' t  say  that  1 
knew  exactly  what  it  involved.  I  did  not  know,  for 
instance,  that  the  Press  in  speaking  of  her  by  her 
nom-de-plume  would  call  her  "  OUR  Julia,"  but  I 
would  not  have  you  think  I  object  to  her  being 
literary.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do 
not  rather  like  it;  but  I  ask  the  Editor  of  "The 
Weekly  Monopolizer,"  as  a  man — as  a  Christian — 
as  a  husband — if  he  thinks  it  right — if  it  is  doing  as 
he  would  be  done  by — to  monopolize  my  wife's 
thoughts  as  early  as  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  ?  I 
merely  ask  for  information.  I  trust  I  have  no  re 
sentful  feelings  toward  the  animal. 
15 


226  FRESH    LEAVES. 


TEA    AND    DARNING    NEEDLES     "FOR 
TWO !" 

NOT  long  since,  John  Bull,  in  the  columns  of  an 
English  newspaper,  growled  out  his  intense  disgust 
at  the  "  trash  in  the  shape  of  American  lady  books," 
which  constantly  afflicted  him  from  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic. 

Here  is  a  book  called  "  Letters  from  the  United 
States,  Canada,  and  Cuba,"  by  the  Hon.  Amelia  M. 
Murray,  a  lady  of  supposable  refinement,  education, 
and  of  the  highest  social  position  in  England ;  a  lady 
whose  daily  bread  was  not  dependent  upon  the  im 
mediate  publication  of  her  book;  who  had  leisure 
and  opportunity  carefully  to  write,  and  to  correct 
and  revise  what  she  had  written. 

We  propose  giving  a  few  extracts  to  show  what 
advance  has  been  made  upon  American  literature, 
by  our  aristocratic  British  sister.  But  before  begin 
ning,  we  wish  to  throw  our  glove  in  John  Bull's 
face,  and  defy  him  to  produce  a  greater,  or  even  an 
equal  amount  of  stupid  twaddle,  unrhetorical  sen 
tences,  hap-hazard  conclusions,  petty,  egotistical, 
uninteresting  details,  narrow-minded  views,  and 
utter  want  of  talent,  from  between  the  covers  of 
any  American  lady  book  yet  published. 

The  political  question  discussed  by  "the  Hon." 
authoress,  we  shall  not  meddle  with  further  than  to 
say,  first,  that  her  book  contains  not  one  new  idea 


TEA  AND  DARNING  NEEDLES  "FOR  TWO."   227 

upon  the  subject ;  secondly,  that  her  advocacy  of  a 
system  which  condemns  a  portion  of  her  own  sex 
to  helpless,  hopeless,  brutal  prostitution,  reflects  as 
little  credit  on  her  standard  of  what  is  lovely  and  of 
good  report  in  woman,  as  does  her  book  upon  fe 
male  English  literature. 

We  quote  the  following  specimens  of  Miss  Mur 
ray's  style : 

"  At  the  house  of  his  sister  I  saw  another  work 
by  the  same  artist :  two  children,  the  one  as  an  an 
gel  leading  the  awakened  soul  of  the  other,  with  an 
inscription  below ;  very  pretty  !" 

Again. 

Speaking  of  the  cholera  in  Boston,  and  the  prac 
tice  of  using  hot  vinegar  there,  as  a  disinfective,  she 
says : 

'•'  I  was  told  a  carriage  of  this  fumigated  liquid  had 
been  driven  through  the  streets ;  there  are  deaths 
here  every  day  and  some  at  Newport,  but  it  is  not 
believed  to  be  contagious  at  present,  only  carrying 
off  the  profligate  and  the  debilitated." 

Again. 

"  Till  my  introduction  to  the  Governor  of  New 
York  I  did  not  know  that  each  State  has  a  Gov 
ernor.  Governor  Seymour  lives  at  Albany.  Some 
of  these  Governors  are  only  elected  for  two  years, 
and  this  gentleman  does  credit  to  popular  choice." 

So  much  for  the  Queen's  English  !  Now  for  one 
or  two  specimens  of  her  penetration.  The  first  quo 
tation  we  make  will  undoubtedly  cause  as  much 


228  FRESH    LEAVES. 

surprise  to  the  very  many  benevolent  associations 
in  Boston  (which  are  constantly  deploring  their  ina 
bility  to  meet  the  voices  of  distress  which  cry.  help 
us !),  as  it  did  to  oursclf : 

:;  I  never  met  a  beggar  in  Boston,  not  even 
among  the  Irish,  and  ladies  have  told  me  that  they 
could  not  find  a  family  en  which  to  exercise  their  be 
nevolent  feelings  /" 

Governor  Seymour,  Miss  Murray's  friend,  will 
doubtless  feel  flattered  by  the  following  patronizing 
mention  of  him.  And  here  we  will  say,  that  it 
would  have  been  more  politic  in  the  Hon.  Miss 
Amelia,  when  we  consider  England's  late  relations 
to  Sebastopol,  had  she  omitted  to  touch  upon  so 
ticklish  a  subject  as  British  military  discipline. 

Speaking  of  Governor  Seymour's  review  of  the 
New  York  troops,  on  Evacuation  Day,  she  says : 

"  Governor  Seymour  reviewed  these  troops  in 
front  of  the  City  Hall  with  as  much  tranquillity  of 
manner  and  simple  dignity  as  might  have  been  evinced 
by  one  of  the  most  experienced  of  OUR  public  men  /" 

One  more  instance  of  Miss  Murray's  superior 
powers  of  observation  : 

'•'I  have  found  out  the  reason  why  ladies,  travel 
ing  alone  in  the  United  States,  must  be  extrava 
gantly  dressed ;  without  that  precaution  they  meet 
with  no  attention,  and  little  civility,  decidedly  much 
less  than  in  any  other  country,  so  here  it  is  not  as 
women,  but  as  ladies,  they  are  cared  for,  and  this  in 
Democratic  America  !;' 


TEA  AND  DARNING  NEEDLES  "FOR  TWO."   229 

In  the  first  place,  every  body  but  Miss  Murray 
knows  that  an  American  LADY  never  "  travels  ex 
pensively  dressed."  That  there  are  females  who  do 
this,  just  as  they  walk  our  streets  in  a  similar  attire, 
and  for  a  similar  purpose,  is  undeniable ;  and  that 
they  receive  from  the  opposite  sex  the  "  attentions" 
which  they  seek,  is  also  true ;  but  this,  it  seems  to 
us,  should  hardly  disturb  the  serenity  of  a  li  Maul  of 
Honor r 

As  an  American  woman,  and  proud  of  our  birth 
right,  we  resent  from  our  British  sister  her  impu 
tation  upon  the  proverbial  chivalry  of  American 
gentlemen.  We  have  traveled  alone,  and  in  thread 
bare  garments,  and  we  have  never  found  these  gar 
ments  non-conductors  of  the  respectful  courtesy  of 
American  gentlemen  j  they  have  never  prevented 
tiie  coveted  glass  of  water  being  proffered  to  our 
thirsty  lips  at  the  depot ;  the  offer  of  the  more  eli 
gible  seat  on  the  shady  side  of  the  cars ;  the  offer  of 
the  beguiling  newspaper,  or  book,  or  magazine  ;  the 
kindly  excluding  of  annoying  dust  or  sun  by  means 
of  obstinate  blinds  or  windows,  unmanageable  by 
feminine  fingers;  the  offer  of  camphor  or  cologne 
for  headache  or  faintness,  or  one,  or  all,  of  the  thou 
sand  attentions  to  which  the  chivalry  of  American 
gentlemen  prompts  them  without  regard  to  exter 
nals,  and  too  often  (shame  on  the  recipients !)  with 
out  the  reward  of  the  bright  smile,  or  kindly  "  thank 
you,"  to  which  they  are  so  surely  entitled. 

I  could  cite  many  instances  in  contradiction  of 


230  FRESH    LEAVES. 

Miss  Murray's  assertion  that  it  is  "not  as  women 
but  as  ladie?,"  that  American  gentlemen  care  for  the 
gentler  sex  in  America.  I  will  mention  only  two, 
out  of  many,  which  have  come  under  my  own  per 
sonal  observation. 

Every  body  in  New  York  must  have  noticed  the 
decrepit  old  woman,  with  her  basket  of  peanuts 
and  apples,  who  sits  on  the  steps  near  the  corner  of 
Canal-street  (for  how  long  a  period  the  oldest  inhab 
itant  only  knows).  One  clay  toward  nightfall,  when 
the  execrable  state  of  the  crossings  almost  defied 
petticoat-dom,  I  saw  her  slowly  gather  up  her  de 
crepit  limbs,  and  undiminished  wares,  and,  leaning 
upon  her  stick,  slowly  totter  homeward.  She 
reached  the  point  where  she  wished  to  cross ;  it  was 
slippery,  wet,  and  crowded  with  a  Babel  of  carts  and 
carriages. 

She  looked  despondingly  up  and  down  with  her 
faded  eyes,  and  I  was  about  to  proffer  her  my  assist 
ance  when  a  gentlemanly,  handsome  young  man 
stepped  to  her  side,  and  drawing  her  withered  hand 
within  his  arm,  safely  guided  her  tottering  footsteps 
across  to  the  opposite  sidewalk ;  then,  with  a  bow, 
graceful  and  reverential  enough  to  have  satisfied 
even  the  cravings  of  the  honorable  and  virginal  Miss 
Murray,  he  left  her.  It  was  a  holy  and  a  beautiful 
sight,  and  by  no  means  an  uncommon  one,  "  even  in 
America." 

Again.  I  was  riding  in  an  omnibus,  when  a 
woman,  very  unattractive  in  person  and  dress,  got 


TEA  AND  DARNING  NEEDLES  "FOR  TWO."        231 

out,  leaving  a  very  common  green  vail  upon  the 
seat.  A  gentleman  present  sprang  after  her  with  it 
in  his  hand,  ran  two  blocks,  placed  it  in  her  posses 
sion,  and  returned  to  his  place,  not  having  received 
even  a  bow  of  thanks  from  the  woman  in  whose 
service  his  nicely  polished  boots  had  been  so  plenti 
fully  mud-bespattered. 

If  "  the  honorable  Miss  Murray"  came  to  this 
country  with  the  expectation  that  a  coach-and-six 
would  be  on  hand  to  convey  her  from  every  depot 
to  the  hotel  she  was  to  honor  with  her  aristocratic 
presence,  or  that  gentlemen  would  remain  with 
their  heads  uncovered,  and  their  hands  on  the  left 
side  of  their  vests  as  she  passed,  in  honor  of  the  re 
flected  effulgence  of  England's  Queen  (supposed  to 
emanate  from  Miss  Murray's  very  ordinary  person), 
it  is  no  marvel  she  was  disappointed.  We  should 
like  to  be  as  sure,  when  we  travel  in  England,  of 
being  (as  a  woman),  as  well  and  as  courteously 
treated  by  John  Bull  as  was  the  honorable  Miss  Ame 
lia  by  Brother  Jonathan  in  America. 

That  there  may  be  men,  "  even  in  America/'  who 
measure  out  their  nods,  and  bows,  and  wreathed 
smiles,  by  the  wealth  and  position  of  the  recipient, 
we  do  not  doubt ;  for  we  have  seen  such,  but  would 
gently  suggest  to  "  the  honorable  Miss  Amelia"  that 
in  the  pockets  of  such  men  she  will  generally  find — 
naturalization  papers! 


232  FRESH    LEAVES. 

A  HOUSE    WITHOUT    A   BABY. 

THERE  was  not  a  child  in  the  house,  not  one ;  I 
was  sure  of  it,  when  I  first  went  in.  Such  a  spick- 
and-span  look  as  it  had !  Chairs — grown-up  chairs, 
plastered  straight  up  against  the  wall ;  books  ar 
ranged  by  rule  and  compass  ;  no  dear  little  careless 
finger-marks  on  furniture,  doors,  or  window-glass; 
no  hoop,  or  ball,  or  doll,  or  mitten,  or  basket,  or 
picture-book  on  the  premises ;  not  a  pin,  or  a  shred 
on  the  angles  and  squares  of  the  immaculate  carpet ; 
the  tassels  of  the  window  shades,  at  which  baby- 
fingers  always  make  such  a  dead  set,  as  fresh  as  if 
just  from  the  upholsterer's.  I  sat  down  at  the  well- 
polished  window,  and  looked  across  the  street.  At 
the  upper  window  of  a  wooden  house  opposite,  I 
saw  a  little  bald  baby,  tied  into  a  high  chair,  specu 
lating  upon  the  panorama  in  the  street,  while  its 
little  fat  hands  frantically  essayed  to  grab  distant 
pedestrians  on  the  sidewalk.  Its  mother  sat  sewing 
diligently  by  its  side.  Happy  woman !  she  has  a 
baby!  She  thought  so,  too;  for  by-and-by  she 
threw  down  her  work,  untied  the  fettering  handker 
chief,  took  the  child  from  its  prison-house,  and  cov 
ered  it  with  kisses.  Ah !  she  had  heard  a  step  upon 
the  stairs — the  step !  And  now  there  are  two  to  kiss 
the  baby ;  for  John  has  come  to  his  dinner,  and  giv 
ing  both  mother  and  child  a  kiss  that  made  my  lips 
work,  he  tosses  the  babe  up  in  his  strong  arms, 
while  its  mother  puts  dinner  on  the  table. 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  233 

But,  pshaw ! — liere  come  the  old  maids  I  was 
sent  to  see.  I  hear  the  rustle  of  their  well-preserved 
silks  in  the  entry.  I  feel  proper  all  over.  Vinegar 
and  icicles !  how  shall  I  ever  get  through  with  it  ? 
Now  the  door  opens.  What  a  bloodless  look  they 
have  ? — how  dictionary-ish  Miey  speak  !— how  care 
fully  they  lower  themselves  into  their  chairs,  as  if 
the  cushions  were  stuffed  with  live  kittens ! — -liow 
smooth  their  ruffs  and  ribbons  ! 

Bibs  and  pinafores !  Give  me  the  upper  room  in 
the  wooden  house,  with  kissing  John  and  the  bald 
baby! 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA. 

NUMBER    ONE. 

AND  this  is  Philadelphia !  All  hail,  Philadelphia ! 
Where  a  lady's  aching  fingers  may  be  reprieved 
from  the  New  York  thraldom  of  skirt-holding  off 
dirty  pavements ;  where  the  women  have  the  good 
taste,  in  dress,  to  eschew  the  gaudy  tulip  and  array 
themselves  like  the  lily ;  where  hoops  are  unknown, 
or  at  least  so  modified  as  to  become  debateable 
ground  ;  where  lady  shop-keepers  know  how  to  be 
civil  to  their  own  sex,  and  do  not  keep  you  stand 
ing  on  one  leg  an  hour  after  you  hand  them  a  bill, 
while  with  hawk  eye  and  extended  forefinger  they 
peruse  that  nuisance  called  the  "  Counterfeit  De- 


234  FRESH    LEAVES. 

tector."  Where  the  goods,  not  better  than  in  New 
York,  save  in  their  more  quiet  hue,  are  never 
crammed  down  a  customer's  unwilling  throat; 
where  omnibus-drivers  do  not  expectorate  into  the 
coach- windows,  or  bang  clouds  of  dust  into  your 
doomed  eyes  from  the  roof,  thumping  for  your  fare, 
or  start  their  vehicles  before  female  feet  have  taken 
leave  of  what  has  nearly  proved  to  so  many  of  us 
the  final  step  !  where  the  markets — but  hold  !  they 
deserve  a  paragraph  by  themselves. 

Ye  gods  !  what  butter !  Shall  I  ever  again  swal 
low  the  abominable  concoction  called  butter  in  New 
York  ?  That  I — Fanny  Fern — should  have  lived  to 
this  time,  and  never  known  the  bliss  of  tasting  Phil 
adelphia  butter ! — never  seen  those  golden  pounds, 
each  separately  folded  in  its  fresh  green  leaf,  repos 
ing  so  temptingly,  and  crying,  Eat  me,  so  eloquently, 
from  the  snow-white  tubs  1  What  have  the  Phila- 
delphians  done  that  they  should  be  fed  on  such  crisp 
vegetables,  such  fresh  fruits,  and  such  creamy  ice 
creams?  That  their  fish  should  come  dripping  to 
their  mouths  from  their  native  element.  That  their 
meat  should  wait  to  be  carried  home,  instead  of 
crawling  by  itself?  Why  should  the  most  circum 
scribed  and  frugal  of  housekeepers,  who  goes  with 
her  snowy  basket  to  buy  her  husband's  dinner,  be 
able  to  daintyfy  his  table  with  a  fragrant  sixpenny 
bouquet  ?  Why  should  the  strawberries  be  so  big, 
and  dewy,  and  luscious  ?  Why  should  the  peas, 
and  cauliflowers,  and  asparagus,  and  lettuce — Great 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  2«JO 

Csesar !  what  have  the  Philadelphians  done  that  they 
should  wallow  in  such  high-stepping  clover  ? 

/  have  it ! 

It  is  the  reward  of  virtue — It  is  the  smile  of  Hea 
ven  on  men  who  are  too  chivalric  to  puff  tobacco- 
smoke  in  ladies'  faces  which  beautify  and  brighten 
their  streets.  They  deserve  it — they  deserve  their 
lily-appareled  wives  and  roly-poly,  kissable,  sensibly- 
dressed  children.  They,  deserve  to  walk  up  those 
undefiled  marble-steps,  into  their  blessed  home 
sanctuaries,  overshadowed  by  those  grand,  patri 
archal  trees.  They  deserve  that  their  bright-eyed 
sons  should  be  educated  in  a  noble  institution  like 
"  The  Central  High  School,"  where  pure  ventilation 
and  cheerfulness  are  considered  of  as  much  import 
ance  as  mathematics,  or  Greek  and  Latin.  Where 
the  placid  brow  and  winning  smile  of  the  Principal 
are  more  potent  auxiliaries  than  ferules  or  frowns. 
Give  me  the  teacher  on  whose  desk  blooms  the 
bouquet,  culled  by  a  loving  pupil's  fingers ;  whose 
eye,  magnetic  with  kindness — whose  voice,  electric 
with  love  for  his  calling,  wakes  up  into  untiring  ac 
tion  all  that  is  best  and  noblest  in  the  sympathetic, 
fresh  young  hearts  before  him.  A  human  teacher, 
who  recognizes  in  every  boy  before  him  (be  he 
poorly  or  richly  clad — be  he  glorious  in  form  and 
face  as  a  young  Apollo,  or  cramped  and  dwarfed 
into  unshapeliness  in  the  narrow  cradle  of  poverty) 
an  immortal  soul,  clamorous  with  its  craving  needs, 
seeking  the  light,  throwing  out  its  luxuriant  ten.- 


2?  FRESH    LEAVES. 

drils  for  something  strong  and  kindly  to  cling  to, 
longing  for  the  upper  air  of  expansion  and  strength. 
God  bless  the  human  teacher  who  recognizes,  and 
acts  as  if  he  recognized  this  !  Heaven  multiply  such 
schools  as  "The  Philadelphia  High  School,"  with 
its  efficient  Principal,  its  able  Professors  and  teach 
ers,  and  its  graduates  who  number  by  scores  the 
noble  and  honored  of  the  land,  and  of  the  sea. 

I  love  to  linger  in  cemeteries.  And  so3  in  com 
pany  with  an  editorial  friend,  Colonel  Fitzgerald,  of 
the  Philadelphia  City  Item,  to  whose  hospitality, 
with  that  of  his  lovely  wife,  I  am  much  indebted,  I 
visited  "  Laurel  Hill."  The  group  "  Old  Mortality" 
at  its  entrance  needs  no  praise  of  mine.  The  eye 
might  linger  long  ere  it  wearied  in  gazing  at  it.  1 
like  cemeteries,  but  I  like  not  elaborate  monuments, 
or  massive  iron  railings ;  a  simple  hedge — a  simple 
head-stone  (where  the  tiny  bird  alights,  ere,  like  the 
parting  spirit,  it  plumes  its  wings  for  a  heavenward 
flight)  for  its  inscription — the  words  to  which  the 
universal  heart  has  responded,  and  will  respond  till 
time  shall  be  no  longer — till  the  graves  give  up  their 
dead  ;  "  Mother"—"  Husband"—"  Wife"—"'  Child" 
— what  epitaph  can  improve  this  ?  what  language 
more  eloquently  measure  the  height  and  breadth, 
and  length  and  depth  of  sorrow  ? 

And  so,  as  I  read  these  simple  words  at  •'  Laurel 
Hill,"  my  heart  sympathized  with  those  unallied  to 
me,  save  by  the  common  bond  of  bereavement ;  and 
thus  I  passed  on — until  I  came  to  an  author's  grave 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  237 

— no  critic's  pen  again  to  sting  that  heart ; — pulse 
less  it  must  have  been,  not  to  have  stirred  with  all 
the  wealth  of  bud  and  blossom,  waving  tree  and 
shining  river,  that  lay  bathed  in  the  golden,  summer 
sunlight  above  him.  So,  God  willing,  would  /  sleep 
at  last ;  but  not  yet — not  yet,  my  pen,  till  thou  hast 
si  ion  ted  again  and  again — Courage!  Courage! — to 
earth's  down-trodden  and  weary-hearted. 


GLANCES   AT   PHILADELPHIA. 

NUMBER    TWO. 

IF  you  want  to  see  unmasked  human  nature, 
keep  your  eyes  open  in  railroad  cars  and  on  steam 
boats.  See  that  man  now,  poring  over  a  newspa 
per,  while  he  is  passing  through  scenery  where  the 
shifting  lights  and  shadows  make  pictures  every 
instant,  more  beautiful  than  an  artist  ever  dreamed. 
See  that  woman,  who  has  journeyed  with  her  four 
children  hundreds  of  miles  alone — as  I  am  proud  to 
say  women  may  safely  journey  in  America  (if  they 
behave  themselves) — travel-stained,  care-worn  and 
weary,  listening  to,  and  answering  patiently  and 
pleasantly  the  thousand  and  one  questions  of  child 
hood  ;  distributing  to  them,  now  a  cracker,  now  a 
sip  of  water  from  the  cask  in  the  corner,  brushing 
back  the  hair  from  their  flushed  brows,  while  her 
own  is  throbbing  with  the  pain,  of  which  she  never 


238  FRESH    LEAVES. 

speaks.  In  yonder  corner  are  two  Irish  women, 
each  with  a  little  red-fretted  baby,  in  the  universal 
Erin  uniform  of  yellow ;  their  little  heads  bobbing 
helplessly  about  in  the  bumping  cars,  screaming 
lustily  for  the  comfort  they  well  know  is  close  at 
hand,  and  which  the  public  are  notified  they  have 
at  last  found,  by  a  ludicrously  instantaneous  sus 
pension  of  their  vociferous  cries.  Beautiful  as  boun 
tiful  provision  of  Nature !  which,  if  there  was  no 
other  proof  of  a  G-od,  would  suffice  for  me. 

There  is  a  surly  old  fellow,  who  won't  have  the 
windows  open,  though  the  pale  woman  beside  him 
mutely  entreats  it,  with  her  smelling-salts  to  her 
nose.  Yonder  is  an  old  bachelor,  listening  to  a 
sweet  little  blue-eyed  girl,  who,  with  untasked  faith 
in  human  nature,  has  crept  from  her  mother's  side. 
and  selected  him  for  an  audience,  to  say — "  that 
once  there  was  a  kid,  with  two  little  totty  kids,  and 
don't  you  believe  that  one  night  when  the  old 
mother  kid  was  asleep,"  etc.,  etc.  No  wonder  he 
stoops  to  kiss  the  little  orator  •  no  wonder  he  laughs 
at  her  na'ive  remarks ;  no  wonder  she  has  magnet 
ised  the  watch  from  his  pocket  "  to  hear  what  it 
says  ;"  no  wonder  he  smooths  back  the  curly  locks 
from  the  frank,  white  brow ;  no  wonder  he  presses 
again  and  again  his  bachelor  lips  to  that  rosy  little 
mouth ;  no  wonder,  when  the  distant  city  nears  us, 
and  the  lisping  "  good-by"  is  chirruped,  and  the  lit 
tle  feet  are  out  of  sight  and  sound,  that  he  sighs, — 
God  and  his  own  soul  know  why  1  Blessed  child- 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  230 

hood — thy  shortest  life,  though  but  a  span,  hath  yet 
its  mission.  The  tiniest  babe  never  laid  its  velvet 
cheek  on  the  sod  till  it  had  delivered  its  Maker's 
message — heeded  not  then,  perhaps — but  coming  to 
the  wakeful  ear  in  the  silent  night-watch,  long  after 
the  little  preacher  was  dust.  Blessed  childhood  1 

It  is  funny,  as  well  as  edifying,  to  watch  hotel  ar 
rivals;  to  see  the  dusty,  hungry,  lack-luster-eyed 
travelers  drag  into  the  eating-room  —  take  their 
allotted  seats — enviously  regard  those  consumers  of 
dainties  who  have  already  had  the  good  fortune,  by 
rank  of  precedence,  to  get  their  hungry  mouths 
filled ;  to  see  them  at  last  "  fall  to,"  as  Americans 
only  know  how.  Heaven  help  the  landlord  !  Beef 
steak,  chicken,  omelette,  mutton-chops,  biscuit  and 
coffee — at  one  fell  swoop.  Waiters,  who  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  have  not  been  kept  breakfastless  since  early 
daylight,  looking  on  calm,  but  disgusted.  Now, 
their  appetites  appeased,  that  respectable  family 
yonder  begin  to  notice  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fitzsnooks 
and  Miss  Fitzsnooks  opposite,  who  are  aristocratically 
delicate  in  their  appetites,  are  shocked  beyond  the 
power  of  expression.  They  begin,  as  they  wipe 
their  satisfied  lips  with  their  table-napkins,  and  con 
template  Miss  Fitzsnooks's  showy  breakfast-robe,  to 
bethink  them  of  their  dusty  traveling-dresses ;  as 
if — foolish  creatures — they  were  not  in  infinitely 
better  taste,  soiled  as  they  are,  than  her  gaudy  finery 
at  so  early  an  hour — as  if  a  man  was  not  a  man 
"  for  a'  that" — ay,  and  a  woman,  too — as  if  there 


2-10  FRESH    LEAVES. 

could  be  vulgarity  without  pretension — as  if  the 
greatest  vulgarity  was  not  ostentatious  pretension. 

i:  Fair  mount"  of  which  the  Philadelphians  are  so 
justly  proud,  is  no  misnomer.  He  must  be  cynical, 
indeed,  hopelessly  weak  in  the  understanding,  who 
would  grumble  at  the  steep  ascent  by  means  of 
wliich  so  lovely  a  panorama  is  enjoyed.  At  every 
step  some  new  beauty  develops  itself  to  the  wor 
shiper  of  nature.  In  the  gray  old  rocks,  festooned 
with  the  vivid  green  of  the  woodbine  and  ivy,  con 
siderately  draping  statues  for  eyes — I  confess  it, 
more  prudish  than  mine.  The  placid  Schuylkill 
flowing  calmly  below,  with  its  emerald-fringed 
banks,  nesting  the  homes  of  wealth  and  luxury ;  en 
joyed  less,  perhaps,  by  their  owners,  than  by  the 
industrious  artisan,  who,  reprieved  from  his  day's 
toil,  stands  gazing  at  them  with  his  wife  and  child 
ren,  and  inhaling  the  breeze,  of  which,  Grod  be 
thanked,  the  rich  man  has  no  monopoly. 

Of  course  I  visited  Philadelphia  "  State-House ;" 
of  course  I  talked  with  the  nice  old  gentleman  who 
guards  the  country's  relics;  of  course  I  stared — 
with  my  76  blood  at  fever  heat — upon  the  big  bell 
which  clanged  forth  so  joyfully  our  American  inde 
pendence  ;  of  course  I  stared  at  the  piece  of  stone- 
step,  from  which  the  news  of  our  Independence 
was  first  announced;  and  of  course  I  wondered 
Low  it  was  possible  for  it,  under  such  circumstances, 
to  remain  stone.  Of  course  I  sat  down  in  the  ven 
erable,  high-backed  leather  chair,  in  which  so  many 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  24] 

great  men  of  that  time,  arid  so  many  little  men  of 
this  have  reposed.  Of  course  I  reverently  touched 
the  piece  of  a  pew  which  formerly  was  part  of 
"  Christ  Church,"  and  in  which  Franklin  and  Wash 
ington  had  worshiped.  Of  course  I  inscribed  my 
name,  at  the  nice  old  gentleman's  request,  in  the 
mammoth  book  for  visitors.  And  of  course  I 
mounted  to  the  Cupola  of  the  State  House  to  see 
"  the  view ;"  which,  with  due  submission,  I  did  not 
think  worth  (from  that  point)  the  strain  on  my 
ankles,  or  the  confused  state  of  my  cranium,  con 
sequent  upon  repeated  losses  of  my  latitude  and 
longitude,  while  pursuing  my  stifled  and  winding  / 
way. 

"The  Mint?"  Oh— certainly,  I  saw  the  Mint! 
and  wondered,  as  I  looked  at  the  shining  heaps,, 
that  any  of  Uncle  Sam's  children  should  ever  want 
a  cent;  also,  I  wondered  if  the  workmen  who 
fingered  them,  did  not  grow,  by  familiarity,  indif 
ferent  to  their  value — and  to  their  possession.  I, 
was  told  that  not  the  minutest  particle  of  the  metal, . 
whether  fused  or  otherwise,  could  be  abstracted 
without  detection.  I  was  glad,  as  I  always  am,Jn- 
a  fitting  establishment,  to  see  women  employed  in; 
various  offices — such  as  stamping  the  coin,  etc.,..ar>jd 
more  glad  still,  to  learn  that  they  had  respectable 
wages.  Heaven  speed  the  time  when  a  thousand 
other  doors  of  virtuous  labor  shall  be  opened  to 
them,  and  silence  for  ever  the  heart-rending  "  Song 
of  the  Shirt." 

16 


t 
242  FRESH    LEAVES. 

GLANCES   AT    PHILADELPHIA. 

NUMBER    THREE. 

ALWAYS  an  if  I  If  the  Philadelphians  would  not 
barricade  their  pretty  houses  with  those  ugly  wood 
en  outside  shutters,  with  those  ugly  iron  hinges- 
I  am  sure  my  gypsy  breath  would  draw  hard  behind 
©ne.  And  if  the  Philadelphians  would  not  build 
such  garrison-like  walls  about  their  beautiful  gar 
dens.  Why  not  allow  the  passer-by  to  view  what 
would  give  so  much  pleasure  ?  certainly,  we  would 
hope,  without  abstracting  am^  from  the  proprietors. 
Clinton  avenue,  as  well  as  other  streets  in  Brook 
lyn,  is  a  beautiful  example  of  this.  Light,  low  iron 
railings  about  the  well-kept  lawns  and  gardens — 
sunset  groups  of  families  upon  piazzas,  and  0 — pret 
tier  yet — little  children  darting  about  like  butterflies 
among  the  flowers.  I  missed  this  in  Philadelphia. 
The  -balmy  air  of  evening  seemed  only  the  signal  for 
barring  up  each  family  securely  within  those  jail-like 
shutters ;  behind  which,  I  am  sure,  beat  hearts  as 
warm  and  friendly  as  any  stranger  could  wish  to 
meet.  I  must  say  I  feel  grateful  to  any  householder 
v.'ho  pliilanthropically  refreshes  the  public  eye  with 
the  vines  and  flowers  he  has  wreathed  about  his 
home.  I  feel  grateful  to  any  woman  I  meet,  who 
rests  my  rainbow-sated  eye  by  a  modest,  tasteful 
costume.  I  thank  every  well-made  man  who  passes 
me  with  well-knit  limbs  and  expanded  chest,  en- 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  243 

cased  in  nice  linen,  and  a  coat  lie  can  breathe  in ; 
yes — why  not  ?  Do  you  purse  up  your  mouth  at 
this  ?  do  you  say  it  was  not  proper  for  me  to  have 
said  this  ?  I  hate  the  word  proper.  If  you  tell  me 
a  thing  is  not  proper,  I  immediately  feel  the  most 
rabid  desire  to  go  "  neck  and  heels"  into  it.  Proper ! 
it  is  a  fence  behind  which  indelicacy  is  found  hidden 
much  oftener  than  in  the  open  highway.  Out  upon 
proper !  So  I  say  again,  I  like  to  see  a  well-made 
man — made — not  by  the  tailor — but  by  the  Al 
mighty.  I  glory  in  his  luxuriant  beard ;  in  his  firm 
step ;  in  his  deep,  rich  voice ;  in  his  bright,  falcon 
eye.  I  thank  him  for  being  handsome,  and  letting 
me  see  him.  We  all  yearn  for  the  beautiful;  the 
little  child,  who  drew  its  first  breath  in  a  miserable 
cellar,  and  has  known  no  better  home,  has  yet  its 
cracked  mug  or  pitcher,  with  the  treasured  dande 
lion  or  clover  blossoms.  Be  generous,  ye  house 
holders,  who  have  the  means  to  gratify  a  taste  to 
which  God  himself  ministers,  and  hoard  not  your 
gardens  and  flowers  for  the  palled  eye  of  satiety. 
Let  the  little  child,  who,  God  knows,  has  few  flowers 
enough  in  its  earthly  pathway,  peep  through  the 
railing,  and,  if  only  for  a  brief  moment,  dream  of 
paradise. 

The  Philadelphia  Opera  House,  which  I  am  told 
is  a  very  fine  one,  I  did  not  see,  as  I  intended,  as 
also"  many  institutions  which  I  hope  yet  to  visit, 
when  I  can  make  a  longer  stay.  Of  one  of  the  prin 
cipal  theaters  I  will  say.  that  she  must  be  a  cour- 


244  FRESH    LEAVES. 

ageous  woman  who  would  dare  to  lean  back  against 
its  poisonously  dirty  cushions.  Ten  minutes  sufficed 
me  to  breathe  an  atmosphere  that  would  have  dis 
graced  the  "  Five  Points ;"  and  to  listen  to  tragic 
howlings  only  equaled  in  the  drunken  brawls  of 
that  locality.  Upon  my  exit,  I  looked  with  new 
surprise  upon  the  first  pair  of  immaculate  marble 
steps  I  .encountered,  and  putting  this  and  that  to 
gether,  gave  up  the  vexed  problem.  New  York 
streets  may  be  dirty,  but  our  places  of  amusement 
are  clean. 

At  one  public  institution  I  visited,  we  were  shown 
about  by  the  most  dignified  and  respectable  of  gray- 
haired  old  men  ;  so  much  so,  that  I  felt  serious  com 
punctions  lest  I  should  give  trouble  by  asking 
questions  which  agitated  my  very  inquiring  mind. 
Bowing  an  adieu  to  him,  with  the  reverence  with 
which  his  appearance  had  inspired  me,  we  were 
about  to  pass  down  the  principal  stairs  to  the  main 
entrance,  when  he  touched  the  gentleman  who  ac 
companied  me  on  the  shoulder,  and  said  in  an  under 
tone,  not  intended  for  my  ears,  "  Please  don't  offer 
me  money,  sir,  in  the  presence  of  any  one  /"  A  min 
ute  after  he  had  pocketed,  with  a  bow,  the  neatly- 
extracted  coin  (which  /should  as  soon  have  thought 
of  offering  to  General  Washington),  and  with  a  pail- 
ing  touch  of  his  warning  forefinger  to  his  lip,  in 
tended  for  my  companion,  we  found  ourselves  Out 
side  the  building,  doing  justice  to  his  generalship  by 
explosive  bursts  of  laughter.  So  finished  was  the 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  245 

performance,  that  we  admiringly  agreed  to  withhold 
the  name  of  the  venerable  perpetrator. 

We  found  the  very  best  accommodations  at  the 
hotel  where  we  were  located,  both  as  to  the  fare  and 
attendance.  I  sent  a  dress  to  the  laundry-room  for 
a  little  re-touching,  rendered  necessary  by  my  ride 
the  day  before.  On  ringing  for  its  return,  the  sum 
mons  was  answered  by  a  grenadier-looking  fellow, 
with  a  world  of  whisker,  who,  as  I  opened  the  door, 
stood  holding  the  gauzy  nondescript  at  arm's  length, 
between  his  thumb  and  finger,  as  he  inquired  of  me, 
"  Is  this  the  item,  mem  ?"  Item  !  Had  he  searched 
the  dictionary  through,  he  could  not  have  better  hit 
it— or  me.  I  have  felt  a  contempt  for  the  dress  ever 
since. 

Having  had  the  misfortune  to  set  the  pitcher  in 
my  room  down  upon  vacancy,  instead  of  upon  the 
wash-stand,  and  the  natural  consequence  thereof 
being  a  crash  and  a  flood,  I  reported  the  same,  lest 
the  chambermaid  should  suffer  for  my  careless  act. 
Of  course,  I  found  it  charged  in  my  bill,  as  I  had  in 
tended,  but  with  it  the  whole  cost  of  the  set  to  which 
it  belonged !  It  never  struck  me,  till  I  got  home, 
that  by  right  of  proprietorship,  I  might  have  in 
dulged  in  the  little  luxury  of  smashing  the  remain 
der — which  I  think  of  taking  a  special  journey  to 
Philadelphia  to  do ! 


240  'FRESH    LEAVES. 

GLANCES   AT   PHILADELPHIA. 

NUMBER  FOUR. 

I  WONDER — I  suppose  a  body  may  wonder — if  the 
outward  sweeping  and  garnishing  one  sees  in  Phil 
adelphia  is  symbolical  of  its  inward  purity  ?  If  the 
calm  placidity  of  its  inhabitants  covers  up  smolder 
ing  volcanoes  ?  It  is  none  of  my  business,  as  you 
say  ;  for  all  that,  the  old  proverb — "  Still  waters  run 
deepest" — would  occur  to  me,  as  I  walked  those 
lovely  streets.  An  eye-witness  to  the  constant  ver 
ification  of  this  truth,  in  the  white-washed,  saintly 
atmosphere  of  the  city  of  Boston,  may  certainly  be 
forgiven  a  doubt.  Do  the  Philadelphia  churches, 
like  theirs,  contain  a  sprinkling  of  those  meek-faced 
Pharisees,  who  weary  Heaven  with  their  long  pray 
ers,  and  in  the  next  breath  blast  their  neighbor's 
character  j  wrho  contribute  large  sums  to  be  heard 
of  men,  and  frown  away  from  their  doors  their  pov 
erty-stricken  relatives?  Do  those  nun-like  Phila 
delphia  women  ever  gossip,  "  Caudle  lecture"  and 
pout  ?  Do  those  correct-looking  men  know  the  taste 
of  champagne,  and  have  they  latch-keys?  Are 
their  Quaker  habits  pulled  off,  when  they  come  "  on 
business"  to  this  seething  Sodom  ?  Or — is  it  true 
of  them,  as  Mackay  says  of  Lady  Jane — 

"  Her  pulse  is  calm— milk-white  her  skin, 
She  hath  not  Llood  enough  to  sin  " 


GLANCES    AT    PHILADELPHIA.  247 

It  is  none  of  my  business,  as  you  say ;  but  still  I 
know  that  white  raiment  is  worn  alike  by  the  rosy 
bride  and  the  livid  corpse. 

Mischief  take  these  microscopic  spectacles  of  mine ! 
mounted  on  my  nose  by  the  hypocrites  I  have 
known,  who  glide  ever  between  my  outstretched  arms 
of  love  and  those  whom  I  would  enfold.  Avaunt ! 
I  like  Philadelphia,  and  I  like  the  Philadelphians, 
and  I  will  believe  in  appearances  once  more  before  I 
die. 

Like  a  cabinet  picture  in  my  memory,  is  lovely 
"  Wissahickon  ;"  with  its  tree-crowned  summits — 
its  velvety,  star-blossomed  mosses  ;  its  feathery  ferns, 
and  its  sweet-breath'd  wild  flowers.  If  any  one 
thinks  an  editor  is  not  agreeable  out  of  harness,  let 
him  enjoy  it,  as  I  did,  with  Mr.  Fry  of  "  The  New 
York  Tribune,"  whose  early  love  it  was  in  boyhood. 
In  such  an  Eden,  listening  to  the  low  whisper  of  the 
shivering  trees,  the  dreamy  ripple  of  the  wave,  and 
the  subdued  hum  of  insect  life — well  might  the  del 
icate  artistic  ear  of  song  be  attuned. 

But  "  Wissahickon"  boasts  other  lions  than  Fry — 
in  the  shape  (if  I  may  use  a  Hibernicism)  of  a  couple 
of  live  bears — black,  soft,  round,  treacherous,  and 
catty  ;  to  be  gazed  upon  at  a  distance,  spite  of  their 
chains  ;  to  shiver  at,  spite  of  their  owner's  assur 
ance,  as  they  came  as  far  as  their  limits  through  the 
trees  to  look  at  us,  "  that  they  wouldn't  do  nothing 
to  nobody."  It  would  be  a  speculation  for  some 
Broadway  druggist  to  buy  that  one  who  stood  upon 


248  FRESH    LEAVES. 

his  hind  legs,  and  taking  a  bottle  of  Sarsaparilla 
Soda  in  his  trained  fore-paws,  drained  it  standing 
with  the  gusto  of  a  connoisseur. 

Not  one  beggar  did  I  see  in  Philadelphia.  After 
witnessing  the  squalor  which  contrasts  so  painfully 
with  New  York  luxury  and  extravagance,  this  was 
$n  untold  relief. 

Philadelphia,  too,  has  what  we  so  much  need 
here — comfortable,  cleanly,  convenient,  small  houses 
for  mechanics;  comprising  the  not-to-be-computed 
luxury  of  a  bath-room,  and  gas,  at  the  attainable 
rent  of  seventy-five  or  a  hundred  dollars  a  year.  No 
house  ever  yet  was  built,  broad  enough,  wide 
enough,  and  high  enough,  to  contain  two  families. 
Wars  will  arise  over  the  disputed  territory  of  front 
and  back  stairs,  which  lawless  childhood — bless  its 
trustful  nature — wrill  persist  in  believing  common 
ground.  But  apart  from  the  cozy  pleasure  of  having 
a  little  snuggery  of  one's  own — where  one  may  cry, 
or  laugh,  or  sneeze,  without  asking  leave — this  sub 
ject  in  its  moral  aspect  is  well  worth  the  attention 
of  humane  New  York  capitalists — and  I  trust  we 
have  such. 


IN    THE    DUMPS.  249 


IN    THE    DUMPS. 

WHAT  does  ail  me  ?  I'm  as  blue  as  indigo.  Last 
night  I  was  as  gay  as  a  bob-o'-link — perhaps  that 
is  the  reason.  Good  gracious,  hear  that  wind  howl ! 
Now  low — now  high — till  it  fairly  shrieks  ;  it  excites 
me  like  the  pained  cry  of  a  human.  There's  my 
pretty  California  flower — blue  as  a  baby's  eyes ;  all 
shut  up — no  wonder — I  wish  my  eyes  were  shut 
up,  too.  What  does  ail  me  ?  I  think  it  is  that  dose 
of  a  Boston  paper  I  have  just  been  reading  (for 
want  of  something  better  to  do),  whose  book  critic 
calls  "  Jane  Eyre"  an  "immoral  book."  Donkey! 
It  is  vain  to  hope  that  Ms  life  has  been  as  pure  and 
self-sacrificing  as  that  of  "  Charlotte  Bronte."  There 's 
the  breakfast-bell — and  there  's  Tom  with  that  au 
tumn-leaf  colored  vest  on,  that  I  so  hate.  Why 
don't  men  wear  pretty  vests  ?  why  can't  they  leave 
off  those  detestable  stiff  collars,  stocks,  and  things, 
that  make  them  all  look  like  choked  chickens,  and 
which  hide  so  many  handsomely-turned  throats,  that 
a  body  never  sees,  unless  a  body  is  married,  or  un 
less  a  body  happens  to  see  a  body's  brothers  while 
they  are  shaving.  Talk  of  women's  throats — you 

ought  to  see  a  whiskered  throat  I   saw  once 

Gracious,  how  blue  I  am !  Do  you  suppose  it  is 
the  weather  ?  I  wish  the  sun  would  shine  out  and 
try  me.  See  the  inch- worms  on  that  tree.  That 's 
because  it  is  a  pet  of  mine.  Every  thing  I  like  goes 


250  FRESH    LEAVES. 

just  that  way.  If  I  have  a  nice  easy  dress  that  I 
can  sneeze  in,  it  is  sure  to  wear  out  and  leave  me  to 
the  crucifying  alternative  of  squeezing  myself  into 
one  that  is  not  broke  into  my  figure.  I  hate  new 
gowns — I  hate  new  shoes — I  hate  new  bonnets — I 
hate  any  thing  new  except  new — spar  ers,  and  I  was 
born  reading  them. 

There 's  a  lame  boy — now  why  couldn't  that  boy 
have  been  straight?  There's  a  rooster  driving 
round  a  harem  of  hens ;  what  do  the  foolish  things 
run  for  ?  If  they  didn't  run,  he  couldn't  chase  them 
— of  course  not.  Now  it 's  beginning  to  rain ;  every 
drop  perforates  my  heart.  I  could  cry  tears  enough 
to  float  a  ship.  Why  need  it  rain  ? — patter — patter 
— skies  as  dull  as  lead — trees  nestling  up  to  each 
other  in  shivering  sympathy;  and  that  old  cow — I 
hate  cows — they  always  make  a  dive  at  me — I  sup 
pose  it  is  because  they  are  females ;  that  old  cow 
stands  stock  still,  looking  at  that  pump-handle  just 
where,  and  as  she  did,  when  I  went  to  bed  last 
night.  Do  you  suppose  that  a  cow's  tail  ever  gets 
tired  lashing  flies  from  her  side  ;  do  you  suppose  her 
jaws  ever  ache  with  that  eternal  munching?  If 
there  is  any  place  I  like,  it  is  a  barn  ;  I  mean  to  go 
a  journey  this  summer,  not  "to  see  Niagara" — 
bat  to  see  a  barn.  Oh,  the  visions  I  've  had  on  hay 
mows  !  oh,  the  tears  I  've  shed  there — oh,  the  golden 
sunlight  that  has  streamed  down  on  me  through  the 
chinks  in  the  raftered  roof— oh,  the  cheerful  swal 
low-twitterings  on  the  old  cross-beams — oh,  the 


IN    THE  DUMPS.  251 

cunning  brown  mice  scampering  over  the  floor — 
oh,  the  noble  bay-horse  with  his  flowing  mane,  and 
arching  neck,  and  satin  sides,  and  great  human  eyes. 
Strong  as  Achilles — gentle  as  a  woman.  Pshaw ! 
women  were  never  half  so  gentle  to  me.  He  never 
repulsed  me  when  I  laid  my  head  against  his  neck 
for  sympathy.  Brute  forsooth !  I  wish  there  were 
more  such  brutes.  Poor  Hunter — he 's  dead,  of 
course,  because  I  loved  him; — the  trunk-maker 
only  knows  what  has  become  of  his  hide  and  my 
books.  What  of  that  ?  a  hundred  years  hence  and 
who  '11  care  ?  I  don't  think  I  love  any  thing — or 
care  for  any  thing  to-day.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
ever  have  any  feeling  again  for  any  body  or  any 
thing.  Why  don't  somebody  turn  that  old  rusty 
weather-cock,  or  play  me  a  triumphant  march,  or 
bring  me  a  dew-gemmed  daisy  ? 

There  's  funeral — a  child's  funeral !  Oh — what  a 
wretch  I  am  1  Come  here — you  whom  I  love — you 
who  love  me  ;  closer — closer — let  me  twine  my 
arms  about  you,  and  G-od  forgive  me  for  shutting 
my  eyes  to  his  sunshine. 


252  FRESH    LEAVES. 

PEEPS    FROM    UNDER    A    PARASOL. 

PEOPLE  describe  me,  without  saying  "  by  your 
leave ;"  a  little  thought  has  just  occurred  to  me  that 
two  can  play  at  that  game  !  I  don't  go  about  with 
my  eyes  shut — no  tailor  can  "  take  a  measure" 
quicker  than  I,  as  I  pass  along. 

There  are  Drs.  Chapin  and  Bethune,  whose  well- 
to-do  appearance  in  this  world  quite  neutralizes 
their  Sunday  exhortations  to  "  set  one's  affections  on 
a  better."  There's  Greeley — but  why  describe  the 
town  pump  ?  he  has  been  handle-d  enough  to  keep 
him  from  Rust-ing.  There's  that  Epicurean  Rip-lie, 
critic  of  the  "New  York  Tribune;"  if  I  have  spelt 
his  name  wrong,  it  was  because  I  was  thinking  of 
the  unmitigated  fibs  he  has  told  in  his  book  reviews ! 
There's  Colonel  Fuller,  editor  of  the  "  New  York 
Evening  Mirror,"  handsome,  witty,  and  saucy. 
There's  Mr.  Young,  editor  of  "  The  Albion,"  who 
looks  too  much  like  a  gentlemen  to  have  abused,  in 
BO  wholesale  a  manner,  the  lady  writers  of  America. 
There's  Blank-Blank,  Esq.,  editor  of  the  "New 
York  Blank,"  who  always  reminds  me  of  what 
the  Scotch  parson  said  to  his  wife,  whom  he  not 
iced  asleep  in  church :  "  Jennie  !  Jennie  !  you  have 
no  beauty,  as  all  the  congregation  may  see,  and 
if  you  have  no  grace,  I  have  made  but  a  poor  bar 
gain  of  it!"  There's  Richard  Storrs  Willis,  or,  Storrs 
Richard  Willis,  or,  Willis  Richard  Storrs  (it  is  a  way 
that  family  have  to  keep  changing  their  names),  edi- 


PEEPS    FROM    UNDER   A    PARASOL.  253 

tor  of  the  "  Musical  World,"  not  a  bad  paper  either. 
Richard  has  a  fine  profile,  a  trim,  tight  figure,  always 
unexceptionably  arrayed,  and  has  a  gravity  of  mien 
most  edifying  to  one  who  has  eat  bread  and  molasses 
out  of  the  same  plate  with  him. 

Behind  that  beard  coming  down  street  in  that 
night-gown  overcoat,  is  Mr.  Charles  A.  Dana,  of  the 
"  New  York  Tribune,"  who  is  ready  to  say,  "  Now 
lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace,"  when  he 
shall  have  made  the  "  New  York  Tribune"  like  unto 
the  "  London  Times ;"  Charles  should  remember  that 
the  motto  of  the  "  London  Times"  is  "  Fair  Play" — 
not  the  appearance  of  fair  play.  And  here  is  Phi 
lander  Doesticks,  of  the  "  New  York  Picayune," 
and  "  New  York  Tribune,"  a  delightful  specimen  of 
healthy  manhood,  in  a  day  whose  boys  at  sixteen 
look  as  though  they  had  exhausted  life ;  may  his 
wit  continue  as  keen  as  his  eyes,  his  heart  as  fresh 
as  his  complexion,  and  his  fancy  as  luxuriant  as 
his  beard.  There's  Bayard  Taylor,  "  the  Oriental 
Bayard."  Now  I  don't  suppose  Bayard  is  to  blame 
for  being  a  pretty  man,  or  for  looking  so  nice  and 
bandbox-y.  But  if  some  public  benefactor  would 
tumble  his  hair  and  shirt  collar,  and  tie  his  cravat  in 
a  loose  sailor  knot,  and  if  Bayard  himself  would  open 
that  little  three-cent  piece  mouth  of  his  a  1-i-t-t-l-e 
wider  when  he  lectures,  it  would  take  a  load  off  my 
mind  !  I  write  this,  in  full  view  of  his  interest  in  the 
Almighty  "  Tribune,"  and  also  set  up  before  him 
certain  "  Leaves"  for  a  target,  by  way  of  reprisal. 


254  FRESH    LEAVES. 

And  there  is  George  P.  Morris — General  Gcoro\j 

o 

Morris — and  Briga-dea?'  General  at  that,  with  an 
eye  like  a  star ;  and  more  vitality  in  him  than  there 
is  in  half  the  young  men  who  might  call  him  father. 
May  Time,  who  has  dealt  so  gently  with  "  The 
Woodman,"  long  delay  to  cut  him  down. 

One  day,  after  my  arrival  in  New  York,  1  met  a 
man  striding  down  street,  in  the  face  of  a  pin-and- 
needle  wind,  that  was  blowing  his  long  hair  away 
from  his  bloodshot  eyes,  and  forcing  him  to  com 
press  his  lips,  to  keep  what  breath  he  had — inside — 
to  warm  him  ;  tall  and  lank,  he  clutched  his  rough 
blanket  shawl  about  him  like  a  brigand.  Fearing 
he  might  be  an  escaped  lunatic,  I  gave  him  a  wide 
berth  on  the  sidewalk.  Each  day,  in  my  walks,  I 
met  him,  till  at  last  I  learned  to  watch  for  the  wea 
ried,  haggard-looking  face ;  I  think  the  demonism 
of  it  magnetized  me.  After  looking  at  the  kidded 
dandies,  who  flourished  their  perfumed  handker 
chiefs  past,  the  sight  of  him  was  as  refreshing  as  a 
grand,  black  thunder  cloud,  looming  up  in  the  hori 
zon,  after  the  oppressive  hum-drum-ness  of  a  sultry 
day.  One  night  I  was  at  the  opera ;  and  amid  its 
blaze,  and  glitter,  and  glare,  was  that  haggard  face, 
looking  tenfold  more  satanic  than  ever.  Grisi 
charmed  him  not,  nor  Mario  either. 

Ah — that  strain  !  who  could  resist  it  ?  A  lumin 
ous  smile  in  an  instant  transforms  Lucifer — was  that 
the  same  haggard  face,  upon  which,  but  one  moment 


PEEPS  FROM  UNDER  A  PARASOL.     255 

ago,  every  passing  hour  had  seemed  to  set  its  seal  of 
care,  and  sorrow,  and  disappointment  ? 

What  was  that  smile  like  ? 

It  was  like  the  glorious  outbursting  of  the  sun  on 
bud,  and  tree,  and  blossom,  when  the  thunder  cloud 
has  rolled  away.  It  was  like  the  sudden  flashing  of 
light  through  a  crystal  vase,  revealing  the  delicate 
tracery  of  His  fingers  who  made  man  originally 
"  but  little  lower  than  the  angels." 

And  so  when  I  hear  Mr.  Fry,  the  musical  thun- 
derer  of  the  "  Tribune,"  called  "  gaunt"  and  "  ugly" 
— I  shake  my  head  incredulously ;  and  when  I  read 
in  the  "  Tribune"  a  biting  article  from  his  caustic 
pen,  dissecting  poor  Napoleon  (who  certainly  expi 
ated  all  his  sins,  even  that  wretched  divorce,  when 
he  fretted  his  eagle  soul  away  at  St.  Helena,  beating 
his  strong,  but  powerless  wings,  heavily  against  his 
English  prison  bars) ;  when  I  read  Mr.  Fry's  vul 
ture-like  dissection  of  Napoleon,  I  recall  that  lumin 
ous  music-born  smile,  and  rejoice  that  in  every  man's 
heart  is  an  oasis  which  the  Simoon-breath  of  worldly 
care,  and  worldly  toil  and  ambition  has  no  power  to 
blight ! 

And  here  comes  Barnum — poor  Barnum  !  late  so 
riant  and  rosy.  Kick  not  the  prostrate  lion,  ye 
crowing  changelings  j  you  may  yet  feel  his  paws  in 
your  faces ;  Mammon  grant  it !  not  for  the  love  I 
bear  to  "  woolly  horses,"  but  for  the  hate  I  bear  to 
Pharisaical  summer  friends. 

Ah !  here  comes  Count  Gurowski  ;  Mars  of  the 


256  FRESH    LEAVES. 

l"  Tribune."  Oh  !  the  knowledge  buttoned  up  in  that 
shaggy  black  overcoat  1  Oh !  the  prophet  eyes  hid 
by  those  ugly  green  goggles !  Not  a  move  on  the 
European  checker-board  escapes  their  notice;  but 
no  film  of  patriotism  can  cloud  to  their  Russian 
owner  the  fall  of  Sebastopol ;  and  while  we  gladly 
welcome  rare  foreign  talent  like  his  to  our  shores. 
our  cry  still  must  be,  "  Down  with  tyranny  and  ty 
rants." 

And  there  is  Briggs ;  whilome  editor  of  "  Putnam's 
Monthly,"  now  factotum  of  the  "  New  York  Times,"  a 
most  able  writer  and  indefatigable  worker.  People 
judge  him  to  be  unamiable  because  his  pen  has  a 
sharp  nib.  Fudge  I  one  knows  what  to  expect  from  a 
torpedo,  but  who  can  count  on  an  eel  ?  I  trust  no 
malicious  person  will  twist  this  question  to  the  dis 
paragement  of  Briggs's  editorial  coadjutor. 

And  here,  by  the  rood,  comes  FANNY  FERN  ! 
FANNY  is  a  woman.  For  that  she  is  not  to  blame  ; 
though  since  she  first  found  it  out,  she  has  never 
ceased  to  deplore  it.  She  might  be  prettier ;  she 
might  be  younger.  She  might  be  older ;  she  might 
bo  uglier.  She  might  be  better;  she  might  be 
worse.  She  has  been  both  over-praised  and  over- 
abused,  and  those  who  have  abused  her  worst,  have 
imitated  and  copied  her  most. 

One  thing  may  be  said  in  favor  of  FANNY  :  she 
was  NOT,  thank  Providence,  born  in  the  beautiful, 
backbiting,  sanctimonious,  slandering,  clean,  contu- 


PEEPS  FROM  UNDER  A  PARASOL.     25 T 

melious,  pbarisaical,  phiddle-dc-dee,  peck-measure 
city — of  Boston  ! 

Look  I 

Which?    How?     Where? 

Why  there;  don't  you  see?  there's  Potiphar  Cur 
tis. 

Potiphar  Curtis !  Ye  gods,  what  a  name  !  Pity 
my  ignorance,  reader,  I  had  not  then  heard  of  the 
great  "  Howadji" — the  only  Potiphar  I  knew  of 
being  that  much-abused  ancient  who — but  never 
mind  him ;  suffice  it  to  say,  I  had  not  heard  of 
"  Howadji ;"  and  while  I  stood  transfixed  with  his 
ridiculous  cognomen,  his  coat  tails,  like  his  name 
sake's  rival's,  were  disappearing  in  the  distance.  So 
I  can  not  describe  him  for  you ;  but  I  give  you  my 
word,  should  I  ever~°S£e  l^m,  to  do  him  justice  to 
the  tips  of  his  boots,  which,  I  understand,  are  of  im 
maculate  polish.  I  have  read  his  "  Papers"  though, 
and  to  speak  in  the  style  of  the  patronizing  critics 
who  review  lady-books,  they  are  very  well— -for  a 
man. 

I  was  sauntering  along  one  sunny  day  last  week, 
when  I  saw  before  me  a  young  girl,  hooped, 
flounced,  fringed,  laced,  bugled,  and  ribboned,  re 
gardless  of  cost.  Her  mantilla,  whether  of  the 
'•  Eugenie"  or  "  Victoria"  pattern  I  am  too  ignorant 
to  inform  you,  was  of  black,  and  had  more  trimming 
than  I  could  have  believed  the  most  ingenious  of 
dressmakers  could  pile  on  one  mantilla,  though 
17 


258  FRESH    LEAVES. 

backed  by  every  dry  goods  merchant  in  New  York. 
Venus  1  what  a  figure  it  was  hung  on  !  Short,  flat- 
chested,  narrow-shouldered,  angular,  and  stick-like  ! 
her  bonnet  was  a  marvel  of  Lilliputianism.  lightness, 
and  lilacs.  Raphael!  what  a  face  was  under  it! 
Watery,  yellow,  black  eyes,  a  sallow,  unwholesome- 
skin,  and — Bardolph !  what  a  nose  !  Imagine  a 
spotted  "  Seckle  pear" — imagine  a  gnarled  bulb-root 
— imagine  a  vanquished  prize-fighter's  proboscis, 
and  you  have  it !  That  such  a  female,  with  such  re 
pulsive  features,  living  in  a  Christian  country,  where 
there  were  looking-glasses,  should  strain  back  from 
the  roots  what  little  hair  she  had,  as  if  her  face  were 
beautiful  in  its  outline — it  was  incredible. 

Who,  or  what,  was  she  ?  One  of  those  poor,  be 
dizened  unfortunates  who  hang  out  signal  "Barkis" 
flags  ?  The  poor  thing  had  no  capital,  even  for  that 
miserable  market  j  nobody  would  have  bid  for  her, 
but  a  pawnbroker. 

While  I  speculated  and  wondered,  she  slowly 
lifted  her  kidded  forefinger.  I  was  all  eyes  and 
ears  !  A  footman  in  livery  sprang  forward,  and 
obsequiously  let  down  the  steps  of  a  superb  car 
riage,  in  waiting,  on  whose  panels  was  emblazoned 
a  coat-of  arms.  The  bundle  of  millinery — the  stick- 
like  figure  inside  the  hoops — the  gay  little  bonnet, 
and  the  Bardolphian  nose,  took  possession  of  it. 
The  liveried  footman  mounted  behind,  the  liveried 
coachman  cracked  his  whip  on  the  box,  the  sleek, 
shiny  horses  arched  their  necks,  the  silver-mounted 


PEEPS    FROM    UNDER    A    PARASOL.  259 

harness  glistened  in  the  sunlight,  and  the  vision  was 
gone.  F-a-n-n-y  F-e-r-n !  is  there  no  limit  to  your 
ignorance  ?  You  had  been  commiserating — actu 
ally  commiserating — one  of  the  elite  of  New  York  ! 

All-compensating  nature  !  tossing  money-bags  to 
twisted  features,  and  divorcing  beauty  from  brains : 
unfortunate  they,  whom  in  thy  hurry  thou  hast 
overlooked,  bestowing  neither  beauty,  brains,  nor 
money ! 

That  was  not  all  I  saw  from  under  my  parasol,  on 
that  sunny  morning.  I  saw  a  young  girl — bonnet- 
less,  shawlless — beautiful  as  God  often  makes  the 
poor — struggling  in  the  grasp  of  two  sturdy  police 
men.  Tears  streamed  from  her  eyes,  while  with 
clasped  hands,  as  she  shrank  away  from  their -rough 
gripe,  she  plead  for  release.  What  was  her  sin  I 
know  not.  It  might  have  been  the  first  downward 
step  in  a  life  of  unfriended  and  terrible  temptation ; 
for  the  agony  in  that  young  face  could  not  have 
been  feigned ;  or — she  might  have  been  seized  only 
on  suspicion ;  but  in  vain  she  begged,  and  prayed, 
and  wept.  Boys  shouted ;  men,  whose  souls  were 
leprous  writh  sin,  jeered ;  and  heartless,  scornful 
women  "  passed  by  on  the  other  side." 

The  poor  young  creature  (none  the  less  to  be 
pitied,  had  she  sinned)  goaded  to  madness  by  the 
gathering  crowd,  seized  her  long  trailing  tresses, 
and  tossing  them  up  like  a  veil  over  her  shame- 
flushed  and  beautiful  face,  resigned  herself  to  her 
fate. 


260  FRESH    LEAVES. 

Many  will  think  any  expression  of  sympathy  for 
this  poor  unfortunate,  uncalled  for.  There  are 
enough  to  defend  that  side  of  the  question,  and  to 
them  I  willingly  leave  it;  there  arc  others,  who, 
with  myself,  could  wish  that  young  girls  thus  (it 
may  be  innocently}  accused,  should  not,  before  trial, 
be  dragged  roughly  through  the  public  streets,  like 
shameless,  hardened  offenders.  There  are  those 
who,  like  myself,  as  they  look  upon  the  faces  of 
their  own  fair  young  daughters,  and  think  of  the 
long  life  of  happiness  or  misery  before  them,  will 
wish  that  the  sword  of  the  law  might  be  tempered 
with  more  mercy. 

The  two  scenes  above  recorded,  are  not  all  that  I 
saw  from  under  my  parasol,  on  that  sunny  morning. 
I  passed  the  great  bow-windows  of  the  St.  Nicho 
las — those  favorite  lounging-places  for  male  guests, 
and  other  gentlemen,  well  pleased  to  criticise  lady 
pedestrians,  who,  thanks  to  the  inventor  of  parasols, 
can  dodge  their  battery  of  glances  at  will. 

Not  so,  the  gentlemen ;  who  weary  with  travel 
and  sight-seeing,  unthinkingly  fall  asleep  in  those 
luxurious  arm-chairs,  in  full  view  of  the  public, 
with  their  heels  on  the  window-sill,  their  heads 
hanging  on  one  side,  and  their  wide-open  mouths 

so  suggestive  of  the snore — that  I  fancy  I 

hear.  Heaven  forgive  these  comical-looking  sleep 
ers  the  cachinatory  sideaches  they  have  often 
given  me ! 

Was  there   ever   any  thing  uglier  than   a  man 


PEEPS    FROM    UNDER    A    PARASOL.  261 

asleep  ?  Single  women  who  have  traveled  in  rail 
road  cars,  need  not  be  too  modest  to  answer ! 

One  of  the  first  things  I  noticed  in  New  York, 
was  the  sharp,  shrill,  squeaking,  unrefined,  vixenish, 
uneducated  voices  of  its  women.  How  inevitably 
such  disenchanting  discord,  breaks  the  spell  of 
beauty  1 

Fair  New  Yorkers,  keep  your  mouths  shut,  if  you 
would  conquer. 

By  what  magnetism  has  our  mention  of  voices 
conjured  up  the  form  of  Dr.  LOWELL  MASON  ?  And 
yet,  there  he  is,  as  majestic  as  Old  Hundred — as 
popular — and  apparently  as  indestructible  by  Tirne. 
I  would  like  to  see  a  pupil  of  his  who  does  not  love 
him.  I  defy  any  one  to  look  at  this  noble,  patri 
archal  chorister  (as  he  leads  the  congregational 
singing  on  the  Sabbath,  in  Dr.  Alexander's  church) 
with  an  unmoistened  eye.  How  fitting  his  position 
— and  oh  !  how  befitting  God's  temple,  the  praise  of 
'l  all  the  people."  Should  some  conquering  hero, 
whose  blood  had  been  shed,  free  as  water,  for  us 
and  ours,  revisit  our  shores,  oh,  who,  as  his  tri 
umphal  chariot  wheels  rolled  by,  would  pass  over  to 
his  neighbor  for  expression  the  tumultuous  gratitude 
with  which  his  own  heart  was  swelling  ? 

That  the  mantle  of  the  father  should  have  fallen 
on  the  son,  is  not  surprising ;  and  they  who  have 
listened  delightedly  at  Mr.  William  Mason's  "  Musical 
Matinee's"  must  bear  witness  how  this  inherited  gift 
has  been  enriched  by  assiduous  culture.  Nature  in 


262  FRESH    LEAVES. 

giving  him  the  ear  and  genius  for  a  pianist,  has  also 
finished  off  his  hands  with  such  nicety,  that,  as  they 
dart  over  the  keys,  they  look  to  the  observer  like 
little  snow-white  scampering  mice. 

Ah — here  is  Dr.  Skinner !  no  misnomer  that :  but 
what  a  logician — what  an  orator !  Not  an  unmean 
ing  sentence — not  a  superfluous  word — not  an  un 
polished  period  escapes  him.  In  these  day  of  super 
ficial,  botched,  evangelical  apprentice-work,  it  is  a 
treat  to  welcome  a  master  workman.  Thank  Prov 
idence,  all  the  talent  is  not  on  the  side  of  Beelze 
bub! 

Vinegar  cruets  and  vestry  meetings !  here  come 
a  group  of  Bostonians !  Mark  their  puckered, 
spick-and-span  self-complaisance !  Mark  that  scorn 
ful  gathering  up  of  their  skirts  as  they  sidle  away 
from  that  gorgeous  Magdalen  who,  God  pity  and 
help  her,  may  repent  in  her  robes  of  unwomanly 
shame,  but  they  in  their  "  mint  and  anise,"  white 
washed  garments — never  ! 

I  close  with  a  little  quotation,  not  that  it  has  any 
thing  to  do  with  my  subject,  but  that  it  is  merely  a 
poetical  finish  to  my  article.  Some  people  have  a 
weakness  for  poetry ;  I  have ;  it  is  from  the  pen  of 
the  cant-hating  HOOD. 

*'  A  pride  there  is  of  rank — a  prido  of  birth, 

A  pride  of  learning,  and  a  pride  of  purse, 
A  London  pride — in  short,  there  be  on  earth 

A  host  of  prides,  some  better,  and  some  worse. 
But  of  all  prides,  since  Lucifer's  attaint, 
The  proudest  swells  a  self-elected  saint. 


THE    CONFESSION    BOX.  263 

To  picture  that  cold  pride,  so  harsh  and  hard, 
Fancy  a  peacock,  in  a  poultry -yard ; 

Behold  him  in  conceited  circles  sail, 
Strutting  and  dancing,  and  planted  stiff 
In  all  his  pomp  and  pageantry,  as  if 

He  felt "  the  eyes  of  Europe  on  his  tail  /" 


THE    CONFESSION    BOX. 

I  CONFESS  to  being  nervous.  I  don't  admire  the 
individual  who  places  a  foot  upon  the  rounds  of  the 
chair  on  which  I  am  sitting ;  or  beats  a  prolonged 
tattoo  with  his  fingers  on  the  table ;  or  stands  with 
his  hands  on  a  creaking  door,  moving  it  backward 
and  forward,  while  he  performs  an  interminable 
leave-taking ;  or  spins  napkin-rings,  while  he  waits 
for  the  dessert ;  or  tips  his  chair  back  on  its  hind 
legs,  in  the  warmth  of  debate ;  or  tells  jokes  as  old 
as  Noah's  ark ;  or  levels  volleys  of  puns  at  me  when 
I  am  not  in  the  laughing  mood. 

Yes,  I  'm  nervous.  I  would  rather  not  hear  a 
dog  bark  more  than  half  the  night.  The  scissors- 
grinder's  eternal  bell-tinkle,  and  the  soap-fat  man's 
long-drawn  whoop,  send  me  out  of  my  chair  like  a 
pop-gun.  I  break  down  under  the  best  minister, 
after  "  forty-ninthly ;"  and  am  prepared  to  scream  at, 
any  minute  after  every  seat  in  a  street  car  is  filled, 
and  every  body  is  holding  somebody  in  their  laps  ; 
and  somebody  is  treading  on  every  body's  toes  in 


264  FRESH    LEAVES. 

the  aisle ;  and  every  door  and  window  is  shut ;  and 
onions  and  musk,  and  tobacco  and  jockey-club,  and 
whisky,  and  patchouli  are  mingling  their  sweets ; 
and  the  unconscionable  conductor  continues  to  beck 
on  to  misguided  females  upon  the  sidewalk,  with 
whole  families  of  babies  (every  one  of  whom  is  suck 
ing  oranges  or  sugar-candy),  to  crowd  in,  and  add 
the  last  drop  of  agony  to  my  brimming  cup. 

Yes,  I  think  I  may  say  I  am  nervous.  I  prefer, 
when  the  windows  of  an  omnibus  are  open,  and  the 
wind  "  sets  that  way,"  that  the  driver  should  not  ex- 
spit-orate  any  oftener  than  is  necessary.  If  the 
skirt  of  my  dress  must  be  torn  from  my  belt  by  hasty 
feet  upon  the  sidewalk,  I  prefer  it  to  be  done  by  a 
man's  boot  rather  than  a  woman's  un-apologizing 
slipper ;  if  the  fringe  of  my  mantle  is  foreordained 
"  to  catch,"  the  gods  grant  it  may  be  in  a  surtout 
button  rather  than  on  a  feminine  watch-chain.  If 
women  shopkeepers  were  less  lavish  of  cross  looks, 
and  crossed  sixpences,  I  might  have  more  faith  in 
the  predicted  "  millennium."  I  don't  wish  the  Irish 
woman  any  harm  who  tortures  me  by  grinding  on 
her  accordeon  in  the  cars,  but,  if  I  thought  she  had 
settled  her  little  reckoning  with  the  priest,  I  should 
be  happy  to  peruse  her  obituary.  I  had  rather  not 
exchange  a  pleasant  parlor  circle  for  the  company  of 
a  huge  bundle  of  "  proof,  to  be  called  for  by  seven 
o'clock  the  next  morning ;"  and  I  had  rather  not 
have  the  pianos,  in  five  different  houses  near,  each 
playing  different  tunes  while  I  am  revising  it.  I  don't 


THE    CONFESSION    BOX.  265 

wish  to  interfere  with  infant  boys  who  are  fond  of 
bonfires,  but  if  they  could  make  them  of  something 
beside  dried  leaves,  it  would  be  a  saving  to  my  bron 
chial  apparatus.  If  people  who  address  me  would 
spell  "  Fanny"  with  two  ns,  I  should  be  more  likely 
to  answer  their  letters.  If  the  little  cherub,  in  jacket 
and  trowsers,  who  blows  the  organ  of  a  Sunday, 
would  stand  behind  a  screen,  it  would  materially 
assist  my  devotions.  If  all  the  men  in  New  York 

had  as  handsome  a  beard  as  the  editor  of  the , 

I  would  not  object  to  see  them  h — air  'em.  I  should 
rather  the  New  Yorker  would  not  say  that  such  and 
such  a  paragraph  would  "go  all  over,"  instead  of 
'*  everywhere."  I  should  rather  the  Connecticuter, 
when  he  does  not  comprehend  me,  would  not  startle 
me  out  of  my  chair  with  a  sharp  Wliich  ?  I  should 
rather  the  Yankee  would  not  say  "he  was  going 
to  wash  him"  or  speak  of  the  " back  side  of  the 
church."  And,  lastly,  if  all  the  people  who  are  born 
with  seven  fingers  on  one  hand,  or  feet  minus  toes, 
or  two  noses,  would  not  select  me  in  the  street  to 
inspect  their  monstrosities,  my  epitaph  might  possi 
bly  be  deferred  a  while  longer. 


260  FRESH  LEAVES. 


A  WORD  TO  PARENTS  AND  TEACHERS. 

I  HAVE  before  me  a  simple  but  imploring  letter 
from  a  little  child,  begging  me  "  to  write  her  a  com 
position."  I  could  number  scores  of  such  which  I 
have  received.  I  allude  to  it  for  the  sake  of  calling 
the  attention  of  parents  and  teachers  to  this  cruel 
bugbear  of  childhood,  with  which  I  can  fully  sym 
pathize,  although  it  never  had  terrors  for  me.  The 
multiplication  table  was  the  rock  on  which  I  was 
scholastically  wrecked ;  my  total  inability  to  ascer 
tain  "  if  John  had  ten  apples,  and  Thomas  took  away 
three,  how  many  John  would  have  left,"  having 
often  caused  me  to  wish  that  all  the  Johns  in  crea 
tion  were — well,  never  mind  that,  now.  I  have 
learned  to  like  Johns  since ! 

But  to  return  to  the  subject.  Just  so  long  as 
themes  like  "  The  Nature  of  Evil,"  or  "  Hydrostat 
ics,"  or  "  Moral  Science,"  and  kindred  subjects,  are 
given  out  to  poor  bewildered  children,  to  bite  their 
nails  and  grit  their  teeth  over,  while  the  ink  dries 
on  the  nip  of  their  upheld  pens,  just  so  long  will 
"  composition  day"  dawn  on  them  full  of  terrors. 
Such  themes  are  bad  enough,  but  when  you  add  the 
order  to  write  three  pages  at  a  mark,  you  simply 
invite  them  to  diffuse  unmeaning  repetitions,  as  sub 
versive  of  good  habits  of  composition  as  the  com 
mand  is  tyrannical,  stupid,  and  ridiculous.  You  also 
tempt  to  duplicity,  for  a  child,  cornered  in  this  way, 


A  WORD  TO  PARENTS  AND  TEACHERS.    207 

has  strong  temptations  to  pass  off  for  its  own  what 
is  the  product  of  the  brains  of  another  ;  and  this  of 
itself,  as  a  matter  of  principle,  should  receive  serious 
consideration  at  the  hands  of  these  child-tormentors. 
A  child  should  never  be  allowed,  much  less  compelled 
to  write  words  without  ideas.  Never  be  guilty  of 
such  a  piece  of  stupidity  as  to  return  a  child's  com 
position  to  him  with  the  remark,  "  It  is  very  good, 
but  it  is  too  short."  If  he  has  said  all  he  has  to  say, 
what  more  would  you  have  ?  what  more  can  you 
get  but  repetition  ?  Tell  him  to  stop  when  he  gets 
through  if  it  is  at  the  end  of  the  first  line — a  lesson 
which  many  an  adult  has  yet  to  learn. 

In  the  first  place,  give  a  child  no  theme  above  his 
comprehension  and  capacity ;  or,  better  still,  allow 
him  to  make  his  own  selection,  and  always  consider 
one  line,  intelligibly  and  concisely  expressed,  better 
than  pages  of  wordy  bombast.  In  this  way  only 
can  he  be  taught  to  write  well,  sincerely,  and  flu 
ently.  Nature  teaches  you  this :  The  little  bird  at 
first  takes  but  short  flights  to  the  nearest  twig  or 
tree.  By-and-by,  as  his  strength  and  confidence 
grow,  they  are  voluntarily  and  pleasurably  length 
ened,  till  at  last  you  can  scarce  follow  him,  as  he 
pierces  the  clouds.  This  forcing  nature — pushing 
the  little  fledgeling  rudely  out  of  the  nest,  can  result 
only  in  total  incapacity,  or,  at  best,  but  crippled 
flights.  In  the  name  of  the  children,  I  enter  my 
earnest  protest  against  it,  and  beg  teachers  and  pa 
rents  to  think  of  and  remedy  this  evil. 


268  FRESH    LEAVES. 


BREAKFAST. 

LET  the  world  fly  off  its  axle  any  hour  in  the 
twenty-four,  save  the  breakfast  hour.  Ruffle  me 
not  then,  and  I  promise  to  out-Socrates  Socrates, 
though  it  should  rain  tribulations  all  the  rest  of  the 
day.  If  I  am  to  have  but  one  glimpse  of  sunshine 
until  nightfall,  let  it  be  then.  A  plague  on  him 
or  her  who  sits  down  to  coffee  (all  hail  coffee !) 
with  a  doleful  phiz.  The  witches  fly  away  with 
that  female  who  presents  herself  in  curl-papers,  or 
introduces  herself  with  a  yawn.  Unassoiled  be  that 
grocer,  who  offends  my  proboscis  with  a  doubtful 
egg;  garroted  be  that  dairyman  who  waters  rny 
milk ;  kneaded  be  that  fat  podge  of  a  baker  who  is 
tardy  with  his  hot  rolls. 

Tell  me  no  disagreeables — be  not  argumentative 
over  our  Mocha ;  discourse  not  of  horrid  murders, 
nor  yet  dabble  in  the  black  sea  of  politics.  Tell  mo 
not  the  price  of  any  article  I  arn  eating,  neither  in 
quire  of  me  prematurely  what  I  will  have  for  my 
dinner.  Let  thy  "  Good-morning"  have  heart  in  it, 
and  touch  thy  lips  to  my  eyelids  as  thou  passest  to 
thy  seat.  If  thou  hast  a  clover-blossom,  or  a  babe, 
set  it  before  me  ;  and  dream  not,  because  my  J  cart's 
incense  rises  silently  as  its  perfumed  breath,  that  I 
praise  not  God  for  the  sweet  morning. 


GREENWOOD    AND    MOUNT    AUBURN.         269 


GREENWOOD  AND  MOUNT  AUBURN. 

<jl  HAVE  seen  Greenwood.  With  Mount  Auburn 
for  my  ideal  of  what  a  cemetery  should  be,  I  was 
prepared  for  disappointment.  But  the  two  are  not 
comparable.  Greenwood  is  the  larger,  and  more 
indebted  to  the  hand  of  art ;  the  gigantic  trees  of 
Mount  Auburn  are  the  growth  of  half  a  century ; 
but  then  Greenwood  has  its  ocean  view,  which,  par 
adoxical  as  it  may  seem,  is  not  to  be  overlooked. 
The  entrance  to  Mount  Auburn  I  think  the  finer. 
Its  tall  army  of  stately  pines  stand  guard  over  its 
silent  sleepers,  and  strew  their  fragrant  leaves  on 
the  pathway,  as  if  to  deaden  the  sound  of  the  car 
nage  wheels,  which,  at  each  revolution,  crush  out  their 
aromatic  incense,  sweet  as  the  box  of  spikenard 
which  kneeling  Mary  broke  at  Jesus'  feet. 

Greenwood  has  the  greater  monumental  variety, 
attributable,  perhaps  (more  than  to  design),  to  the 
motley  population  of  New  York ;  the  proprietors  of 
each  tomb,  or  grave,  carrying  out  their  national  ideas 
of  sepulture.  This  is  an  advantage.  Mount  Au 
burn  sometimes  wearies  the  eye  with  its  monu 
mental  monotony.  Mount  Auburn,  too,  had  (for  he 
long  since  laid  down  in  its  lovely  shade),  a  gray- 
haired  old  gate-keeper,  courteous  and  dignified :  i;  a 
man  of  sorrows,"  whose  bald,  uncovered  head,  many 
will  remember,  who  have  stood  waiting  at  the  por 
tal  to  bear  in  their  dead.  Many  a  bouquet,  simple 


270  FRESH    LEAVES. 

but  sweet,  of  my  favorite  flowers  have  I  taken  from 
his  palsied  hand;  and  many  a  sympathizing  look; 
treasured  up  in  my  heart  from  him  whom  Death 
had  also  bereft  of  all.  Greenwood  has,  at  least  if 
my  afternoon  visit  was  a  fair  exponent,  its  jocund 
grave-diggers,  who,  with  'Careless  poise,  and  inde 
cent  foot,  of  haste  stumble  on  with  the  unvarnished 
coffin  of  the  poor,  and  exchange  over  the  fresh 
and  narrow  mound,  the  comrade's  time-worn  jest. 
Money  has  its  value,  for  it  purchases  gentler  hand 
ling  and  better  manners. 

Let  those  who  will,  linger  before  the  marble 
statue,  or  chiseled  urn  of  the  rich ;  clearer  to  me  is 
the  grave  of  the  poor  man's  child,  where  the  tiny, 
half-worn  shoe,  is  sad  and  fitting  monument.  Dearer 
to  me,  the  moldy  toys,  the  whip,  the  cap,  the  doll, 
the  faded  locks  of  hair,  on  which  countless  suns  have 
risen  and  set,  and  countless  showers  have  shed  their 
kindly  tears.  And  yet  for  the  infant  army  who 
slumber  there,  I  can  not  weep ;  for  I  bethink  me  of 
the  weary  toil  and  strife ;  the  wrecks  that  strew  the 
life-coast ;  the  plaint  of  the  weary-hearted,  unheard 
in  life's  fierce  clamor  j  the  remorseless,  iron  heel  of 
strength,  on  the  quivering  heart  of  weakness ;  the 
swift- winged,  poisoned  arrow  of  cruel  slander;  the 
hearts  that  are  near  of  kin  as  void  of  love ;  and  I 
thank  Grod  that  the  little  shoes  were  laid  aside,  and 
the  dreary  path  untrod. 

And  yet,  not  all  drear,  for,  as  I  pass  along,  I  read, 
in  graven  lines,  of  those  who  periled  life  to  save  life ; 


GREENWOOD  AND  MOUNT  AUBURN.    271 

who  parted  raging  billows  and  forked  flames,  at 
woman's  wild,  despairing  shriek,  and  childhood's 
helpless  wail.  Honor  to  such  dauntless  spirits,  while 
there  are  eyes  to  moisten  and  hearts  to  feel ! 

Beautiful  Greenwood!  with  thy  feathery  sway 
ing  willows,  thy  silver-voiced  fountains  and  glassy 
lakes ;  with  thy  grassy  knolls  and  shady  dells ;  with 
thy  ''Battle  Hill/'  whose  sod  of  yore  was  nourished 
by  brave  men's  blood.  The  sailor  here  rests  him 
well,  in  sound  of  old  Ocean's  roar ;  the  fireman  heeds 
nor  booming  bell,  nor  earthly  trump,  nor  hurried 
tramp  of  anxious  feet;  the  pilot's  bark  is  moored 
and  voyage  o'er ;  the  school-boy's  lesson  conned ; 
beauty's  lid  uncloses  not,  though  rarest  flowers  bloom 
above  her ;  no  husband's  hand  is  outstretched  to  her 
who  stoops  with  jealous  care  to  pluck  the  obtrusive 
weed  which  hides  the  name  she,  lonely,  bears ;  no 
piping,  bird-like  voice,  answers  the  anguished  cry, 
"  My  child,  my  child !"  but,  still  the  mourners  come, 
and  sods  fall  dull  and  heavy  on  loved  and  loving 
hearts,  and  the  busy  spade  heeds  never  the  drop 
ping  tears ;  and  for  her  who  writes,  and  for  them 
who  read — ere  long — tears  in  their  turn  shall  falL 
God  help  us  all. 


272.  FRESH    LEAVES. 


GETTING-    UP    THE    WRONG-    WAY. 

IT  was  an  unlucky  day ;  every  body  has  known 
such.  I  got  up  just  one  hour  too  late,  and  spent  the 
whole  day  vainly  trying  to  make  it  up.  It  was  use 
less.  Things  were  predestined  to  go  wrong.  I  felt 
it.  Hooks  and  eyes,  strings  and  buttons  were  in  the 
maddening  conspiracy.  Shoes  and  stockings  were 
mis-rnated ;  there  was  a  pin  in  the  towel  on  which 
I  wiped  my  face;  my  hair-brush  and  comb  had 
absconded,  and  my  tooth-brush  and  nail-brush  had 
gone  to  keep  them  company.  I  ate  a  hurried  break 
fast,  salting  my  coffee  and  sugaring  my  beefsteak : 
for  I  recollected  that  I  had  pressing  business  down 
town  which  required  a  cool  head  and  punctual  feet. 
As  I  looked  at  my  watch,  I  saw  that  it  was  already 
time  that  I  was  on  my  way.  I  wound  it  up  with  a 
jerk,  snapping  the  crystal,  and  dislocating  a  spring. 
Now  my  boot  laces  knotted  and  twisted,  and  defied 
every  attempt  to  coerce  them  into  duty ;  and  what 
was  worse,  upon  looking  for  the  MS.  (the  product 
of  hours  and  days  of  labor),  I  found  that  I  had 
burned  it,  in  my  absent  state  of  mind,  along  with 
some  waste  paper !  and  I  recollected  with  agony 
how  indifferently  I  had  watched  the  last  sparkling 
fragment,  as  the  hated  wind  merrily  whistled  it  up 
the  chimney. 

I  held  my  head  for  one  distracted  minute  !  Was 
it  possible  to  recall  it  as  it  was  originally  written  ? 


GETTING    UP    THE    WRONG    WAY.  273 

Even  suppose  I  could  ?  think  of  all  that  lost  labor 
(on  heavenly  days,  too,  wjien  the  pleasant  sunlight 
wooed  me  out-of-doors),  and  think  of  all  that  jog 
trot  punctuating  to  be  gone  over  again.  For  me, 
who  hate  stops — who  believe  only  in  an  exclamation 
point  and  a  dash !  I,  who  turn  my  back  disdainfully 
upon  an  interrogation  point,  who  despise  coal-on 
(save  in  January),  who  religiously  believe  that  a 
writer  should  no  more  be  expected  to  fritter  away 
his  brains  on  stupid  stops,  than  that  an  artist  should 
be  required  to  manufacture  with  his  own  hands  the 
wooden  frames  used  for  his  pictures. 

Well,  the  MS.  was  gone — stops  and  all — past 
praying  for.  I  had  not  even  time  to  whine  about 
it ;  I  must  go  directly  down  town.  I  had  the  mis 
fortune  to  be  boarding,  so  every  drawer,  closet,  and 
cupboard  must  be  locked  before  starting ;  for  locking 
one's  room  door  is  a  mere  farce  while  there  are  du 
plicate  keys  in  the  house.  Yes,  I  locked  them,  and 
unlocked  them,  too,  twenty  times  or  more,  as  I 
recollected  some  handkerchief,  collar  or  purse,  which 
I  had  forgotten  to  take  out. 

All  right  now,  said  I,  dolorously,  as  I  put  the  rat 
tling  keys  in  my  pocket,  descended  the  interminable 
hotel  stairs,  and  gained  the  street.  I  had  passed 
two  blocks  when  I  discovered  that  the  pair  of 
gloves  I  had  brought  were  both  for  one  hand  ;  the 
thermometer  was  at  nipping  point  and  I  had  left  my 
muff  behind !  I  thrust  one  bare  hand  into  my  shawl, 
18 


274  FRESH    LEAVES. 

shut  my  teeth  together,  and  exclaimed,  as  I  looked 
Fate  full  in  the  face — now^  do  your  worst. 

And  so  it  did  ! 

Down  came  the  snow ;  had  I  taken  my  umbrella, 
not  a  flake  would  have  fallen  j  every  body  knows 
that.  I  looked  at  the  omnibusses ;  they  were  all 
full — full  of  great,  lazy,  black-coated  men.  I  hate  a 
black  coat;  I  don't  know  why  a  man,  unless  he  has 
received  "  the  right  hand  of  fellowship,"  should  but 
ton  himself  up  in  one.  Yes,  there  they  sat,  as  sol 
emn  as  so  many  parsons,  with  their  hats  slouched 
over  their  faces,  thinking  to  save  time  (while  they 
ruined  their  eye-sight)  by  reading  the  morning  pa 
pers  as  they  joggled  along  to  their  offices.  Mean 
while  down  came  the  pitiless  snow,  as  I  plodded 
along.  Plodded,  for  every  wheel-barrow,  box,  bale, 
cask,  cart,  and  wagon,  got  purposely  across  my 
track ;  and  not  for  the  life  of  me  could  I  remember 
a  sentence  of  that  ascension  MS. 

I  tried  not  to  meet  any  body,  but  I  met  every 
body,  and  every  body  WOULD  speak  to  me :  beggars 
stopped  me,  country  folks  singled  me  out  to  inquire 
the  way — me  I  why  me  f  with  a  street  full  of  people  ? 
Did  I  direct  them  wrong  ?  Let  them  learn  to  ask 
somebody  next  time  who  does  not  mourn  a  lost 
MS. ;  somebody  whose  life  is  not  spent  in  locking 
up  things  and  losing  the  keys ;  somebody  who  is  not 
required  to  write  an  article  with  a  stupid  chamber 
maid  flying  in  and  out  every  ten  minutes,  leaving 
your  door  ajar,  whirling  your  papers  across  the 


GETTING    UP    THE    WRONG    WAY.  275 

room,  and  scattering  your  ideas  to  the  remorseless 
winds ;  somebody  whose  meals  are  not  always  not  to 
be  had,  when  type  and  printers  wait  for  no  woman. 

This  is  a  digression.  I  reached  the  goal  at  last ; 
simply  and  only  because  one  who  keeps  moving 
must  inevitably  fetch  up  somewhere.  I  performed 
my  errand,  or  thought  I  had,  till  I  had  got  half-way 
home,  when  I  recollected  an  important  fact  omitted 
— rt  importe.  I  was  desperate  now.  Gruns  and 
pistols  could  not  have  turned  my  steps  back  again. 
How  it  blew !  how  it  snowed !  I  did  not  hurry 
one  step ;  I  took  a  savage  pleasure  in  thinking  of 
my  spoiled  bonnet-ribbon,  wet  feet,  and  ice-ermined 
skirts.  I  even  stopped,  as  I  observed  some  um 
brella-shielded  pedestrian  looking  wonderingly  at 
me,  and  gazed  with  affected  delight  at  the  miserable 
feminine  kick-shaws  in  the  shop  windows,  just  to 
show  my  sublime  indifference  to  the  warring  ele 
ments. 

I  reached  my  room,  by  dint  of  climbing  the  ob 
noxious  stairs.  I  turned  the  key,  as  I  fondly  hoped, 
on  all  my  species. 

Eat,  tat,  rat,  tat ! 

Shall  I  hear  it? 

Not  I ! 

Eat,  tat,  tat,  rat,  tat! 

It  is  of  no  use ;  I  shall  go  mad  with  that  thump 
ing.  I  had  rather  face  Cloven  Foot  himself  than 
hear  it.  I  open  the  door ;  it  is  my  washerwoman. 
She  has  a  huge  pile  of  clothes  to  be  counted,  and 


276  FRESH    LEAVES. 

sorted,  and  paid  for,  too !  She  dumps  them  down 
on  the  floor,  just  as  if  every  minute  was  not  to  me 
so  much  gold-dust  until  that  MS.  was  resurrection- 
ized.  I  look  around  for  my  list  of  the  clothes.  It 
is  not  in  the  big  dictionary,  no,  nor  in  the  Bible,  no, 
nor  in  the  pocket  of  my  blue,  red,  gray,  green,  or 
plaid  dress. 

Bother  !  I  exclaim,  I  can't  find  it.  I  dare  say  you 
have  them  all  right ;  so  I  commence  taking  them  out, 
and  counting  the  pieces  with  an  eye  to  her  pay. 
What's  that  ?  A  dickey,  two  shirts,  and  a  vest !  I 
hold  them  up  to  the  light  with  the  tips  of  my  fin 
gers. 

Woman  alive !  what  need  has  a  female  of  such 
garments  ? 

She  had  made  a  mistake.  She  had  brought  me 

Mr. 's  clothes — I  will  not  expose  him  by  telling 

his  name,  for  they  were  wretchedly  ragged ;  but  as 
I  turned  the  key  again  on  them  and  her,  I  squeezed 
'this  drop  of  comfort  out  of  my  misery — Thank 
heaven,  I  have  not  to  mend  those  clothes ! 

Eat,  tat,  tat !     Merciful  man !  what  now  ? 

A  bundle  of  proofs,  big  as  my  head,  to  read 
and  return  by  the  bearer  immediately,  and  quick  at 
that. 

I  sat  down.  So  did  the  devil.  I  began  to  read, 
pen  in  hand.  I  could  not  remember,  with  my  be 
wildered  brain,  whether  "  stet"  stood  for  "  let  it  be," 
or  "take  it  out;"  or  what  "  d"  signified  in  a  type 
setter's  alphabet.  I  read  on.  Could  it  be  possible 


A    HOT    DAY.  277 

that  /  ever  wrote  such  a  disconnected  sentence  as 
this?  No,  they  have  left  out  an  entiie  line;  and 
forgot  to  send  the  MS.  copy,  too ! 

Devil  take  it!  I  exclaim;  and  so  he  does  (the 
literal  infernal !)  and  is  out  of  sight  before  I  can  ex 
plain  that  the  unorthodox  exclamation  was  wrung 
out  of  me  by  the  last  drop  in  my  brimming  cup  on 
that  unlucky  day. 


A    HOT    DAY. 

SISSING  fry-pans,  and  collapsed  flapjacks — what  a 
hot  day  !  Not  a  breath  of  air  stirring,  and  mine  al 
most  gone.  Fans  enough,  but  no  nerve  to  wield 
'em.  Food  enough,  but  no  strength  to  chew  it. 
Chairs  hot ;  sofa  hotter  ;  beds  hottest.  Sun  on  the 
back  stoop  ;  sun  on  the  front  stoop ;  and  hot  neigh 
bors  on  both  sides.  •  Kittens  mewing;  red-nosed 
babies  crying ;  poor  little  Hot-ten-tots !  dogs  drag 
ging  about  with  protruding  tongues  and  inquiring 
tails;  cockerels  feebly  essaying  to  crow.  Every 
thing  sticky,  and  flabby,  and  limpsy.  Can't  read ; 
can't  sew;  can't  write;  can't  talk;  can't  walk;  can't 
even  sleep ;  hate  every  body  who  passes  through  the 
room  to  make  it  hotter. 

Now,  just  see  that  fly.  If  I  have  knocked  her  off 
my  nose  once,  I  have  done  it  forty  times ;  nothing 
will  serve  her  but  the  bridge  of  my  nose.  I  say  her, 


278  FRESH    LEAVES. 

because  I  am  sure  it  is  a  female,  cm  account  of  its 
extraordinary  and  spiteful  persistence. 

"  Will  I  have  any  thing  to  drink  ?"  No.  Wine 
heats  me ;  lemonade  sours  me ;  water  perspires  me. 
"  Will  I  have  the  blinds  closed  ?"  No.  "  Will  I 
have  'em  open  ?"  No.  "  What  will  I  have  ?" 
Well — if  there's  an  old  maid  to  be  had,  for  heaven's 
sake,  walk  her  through  this  room  to  cool  it.  "  What 
will  I  have  for  dinner  ?"  Now,  isn't  that  the  last 
drop  in  my  brimming  cup  ?  Dinner,  indeed  !  Soup 
hop;  fish  hot;  beef  hot;  mutton  hot;  chicken  hot; 
— ugh !  Hot  potatoes  ;  hot  squash ;  hot  peas ;  hot 
pudding ;  hot  children ; — ugh  !  Tell  that  butcher  to 
make  his  will,  or  get  out  of  my  kitchen.  "  Lady 
down  stairs  wishes  to  see  me  ?"  In  the  name  of 
Adam  and  Eve,  take  all  my  dresses  off  the  pegs  and 
show  her — but  never  believe  I'd  be  so  mad  as  to 
get  into  them  for  any  body  living. 


FUNERAL    NOTES. 

WAS  there  ever  any  thing  like  these  insensate 
N"ew  Yorkers  ?  Peep  with  me  into  that  undertak 
er's  shop,  sandwiched  between  a  millinery  establish 
ment  and  an  oyster  saloon.  See  the  coffins,  Behe 
moth  and  Lilliputian,  pyramided  in  corners,  spread 
out  in  rows,  challenging  in  platoons,  on  the  side 
walk,  the  passers-by;  while  in  the  windows  are 


FUNERAL    NOTES.  279 

corpse-caps,  stiffly  starched  and  plaited,  with  white 
ribbon  strings,  ready  to  be  tied  Bunder  your  chin,  or 
mine. 

See  the  jolly  owner,  seated  on  a  chair  in  the  mid 
dle  of  his  shop,  with  his  legs  crossed,  his  hat  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  nonchalantly  smoking,  with  his 
children  about  his  knee ;  as  if  the  destroying  angel 
had  charge  to  pass  unvisited  his  blood-besprinkled 
door-post;  as  if  eyes  now  bright  with  hope  were 
never  to  weep  themselves  dim  over  those  narrow 
houses. 

Now  a  customer  comes  in ;  a  young  man,  whose 
swollen  lids  tell  their  own  sorrowful  tale.  The  jolly 
undertaker,  wide  awake,  throws  away  his  cigar 
stump,  hands  a  chair  to  the  new  comer,  exchanges 
a  few  words  with  him,  draws  pencil  and  paper  from 
his  pocket,  and  taking  an  infant's  coffin  into  his  lap 
for  a  writing  desk,  commences  scribbling  down  di 
rections.  Meanwhile,  a  hearse  rattles  up  to  the 
door;  none  of  your  poor-house  hearses,  in  rusty 
black,  with  "  seedy"  driver,  and  hang-dog  looking 
horses ;  but  a  smart,  sonsie,  gay-looking  New  York 
turn-out — fit  for  a  turtle-consuming,  turtle-con 
sumed  mayor ;  with  nine  huge  ostrich  feathers,  black 
and  white,  nodding  patronizingly  to  the  a-gape  urch 
ins,  who  stand  around  the  door,  who  are  almost 
willing  to  get  into  a  coffin  to  have  a  ride  with  them 
— with  two  spanking  white  horses,  equal  to  Dan 
Rice's  "Excelsior,"  with  ostrich  feathers  in  either 
ear,  flowing  as  their  well-combed  tails,  which  whisk 


280  FRESH    LEAVES. 

gracefully  over  the  black  velvet  pall  and  trappings, 
as  if  Life  were  a  holiday  and  Death  its  Momus. 

Now  the  young  man  staggers  out,  shuddering  as 
he  passes  the  hearse,  and  screening  his  swollen  lids 
from  curious  gazers  and  the  obtrusive  sunshine,  to 
whom  broken  hearts  are  an  every-day  story.  The 
jolly  undertaker  rubs  his  hands,  for  death  is  busy 
and  business  is  brisk.  The  young  man  has  made  no 
bargain  with  him  beforehand  as  to  prices ;  how  could 
he  ?  his  heart  was  full  of  the  widowed  sister  he  left 
behind,  and  her  newly-made  orphans ;  he  only  re 
marked,  as  he  left  the  street  and  number,  "  to  do 
what  is  customary ;"  and  custom  requires  that  car 
riages  shall  be  provided  for  all  the  "  friends  and  ac 
quaintances"  who  may  wish  to  go.  So  "  friends  and 
acquaintances"  gather  (when  the  funeral  hour  ar 
rives).  Why  not  ?  The  day  is  fine  and  a  ride  to 
the  out-of-town  cemetery  pleasant,  and  (to  them) 
inexpensive ;  they  whose  eyes  scarce  rested  with 
interest  on  the  living  form,  gaze  ceremoniously  and 
curiously  on  the  dead;  the  widow's  tears  are 
counted,  the  mourning  dresses  of  herself  and  chil 
dren  scrutinized ;  the  prayer  that  always  falls  so  im 
measurably  short  of  what  critical  ears  demand,  is 
said;  a  great  silence — then  a  rustling — bustling — 
whispering — then  the  coffin  is  borne  past  the  widow, 
who  sees  it  through  a  mist  of  tears ;  and  then  the 
long  procession  winds  its  way  through  harlequin 
Broadway,  with  its  brass  bands,  and  military  com 
panies,  its  thundering  omnibusses,  its  bedizened 


FUNERAL    NOTES.  281 

courtezans,  its  laughing  pedestrians,  and  astonished, 
simple-hearted  country-folk.  Wheels  lock,  milk 
carts  and  market  wagons  join  the  procession  ;  Bar- 
num's  band  pipes  from  out  the  Museum  balcony 
merry  "Yankee  Doodle,"  and  amid  curses  and 
shouts,  laughter  and  tears,  the  mournful  cavalcade 
moves  on. 

And  now  the  incongruous  showy  farce  is  over, 
and  the  "friends  and  acquaintances"  alighting  at 
their  respective  houses,  re-cross  their  unblighted 
thresholds,  and  the  widow  and  children  return  to 
their  desolate  hearth-stone  (how  desolate,  God  and 
themselves  only  know) ;  while  poverty,  strange  and 
unbidden  guest,  creeps  stealthily  after  them,  and 
takes  the  empty  chair. 

0  clamorous  tyrant,  Custom !  0  thoughtless,  un 
friendly  friends,  who  can  mourn  for  the  dead  only 
in  carriages,  that  swallow  up  the  little  legacy  left 
for  the  living,  by  the  dead  for  whom  you  profess  to 
grieve ! 

Beautiful  the  calm  faith  of  Swedenborg,  turning 
its  hopeful  eye  away  from  such  childish  sackcloth 
mummery;  anchoring  where  no  wave  of  earthly 
trouble  rolls ;  gliding  through  the  accustomed  life- 
paths,  not  lonely,  not  hopeless ;  feeling  still  the  warm 
life-clasp,  hearing  still  the  loved  voices,  breaking  the 
bread,  or  blessing  the  meat. 


282  FRESH    LEAVES. 


THE    "FAVORITE"    CHILD. 

WHY  will  parents  use  that  expression?  What 
right  have  you  to  have  a  favorite  child  ?  The  All- 
Father  maketh  his  sun  to  shine  alike  upon  the  daisy 
and  the  rose.  Where  would  you  be,  were  His  care 
measured  by  your  merits  or  deserts  ?  Is  your  child 
none  the  less  your  child,  that  nature  has  denied  him 
a  fluent  tongue,  or  forgotten  her  cunning,  when,  in 
careless  mood,  she  fashioned  his  limbs  ?  Because 
beauty  beams  not  from  the  eye,  is  there  no  intelli 
gence  there  ?  Because  the  rosy  flush  mantles  not 
the  pale  cheek,  does  the  blood  never  tingle  at  your 
coldness  or  neglect  ?  Because  the  passive  arms  are 
not  wound  about  your  neck,  has  the  soul  no  passion 
ate  yearnings  for  parental  love  ?  0,  how  often  does 
God,  more  merciful  than  you,  passing  by  the  Josephs 
of  your  household,  stoop  in  his  pity  and  touch  those 
quivering  lips  with  a  live  coal  from  off  the  altar  ? 
How  often  does  this  neglected  one,  burst  from  out 
the  chrysalis  in  which  your  criminal  coldness  has 
enveloped  him,  and  soaring  far  above  your  wildest 
parental  imaginings,  compel  from  your  ambition, 
what  he  could  not  gain  from  your  love  ? 

How  often  does  he  replenish  with  liberal  hand 
the  coffers  which  the  "favorite  child,"  in  the  selfish 
ness  which  you  fostered,  has  drained  of  their  last 
fraction.  "  He  that  is  first  shall  be  last,  and  the  last 
shall  be  first,"  Let  parents  write  this  on  their  heart 


A    QUESTION,    AND    ITS    ANSWER.  28-3 

tablets.  Let  them  remember  it  when  they  repulse 
the  little  clinging  arms,  or  turn  a  deaf  ear  to  the 
childish  tale  of  sorrow.  0,  gather  up  those  clinging 
tendrils  of  affection  with  gentlest  touch ;  trample 
them  not  with  the  foot  of  haste  or  insensibility 
rudely  in  the  dust. 

"And  they,  in  the  darkest  of  days,  shall  bo 
Greenness,  and  beauty,  and  strength  to  thce." 


A   QUESTION,  AND    ITS   ANSWER. 

To  MARY-  M.,  who  desires  a  frank  expression  of 
opinion  from  the  undersigned,  with  regard  to  her 
marrying  an  old  bachelor. 

Answer.  Don't  do  it.  A  man  who  for  so  long 
a  period  has  had  nobody  but  himself  to  think  of,  who 
knows  where  the  finest  oysters  and  venison  steaks 
are  to  be  found,  and  who  has  for  years  indulged  in 
these  and  every  other  little  selfish  inclination  un 
checked,  will,  you  may  be  sure  (without  punning), 
make  a  most  miserable  help-meat.  When  you  have 
tea,  he  will  wish  it  were  coffee ;  when  you  have  cof 
fee,  he  will  wish  it  were  tea ;  when  you  have  both, 
he  will  desire  chocolate  ;  and  when  you  have  all,  ho 
will  tell  you  that  they  are  made  much  better  at  his 
favorite  restaurant.  His  shirts  never  will  be  ironed 
to  suit  him,  his  cravats  will  be  laid  in  the  drawer 
the  wrong  way,  and  his  pockct-handkercliiefs  marked 


284  FRESH    LEAVES. 

in  the  wrong  corner.  He  will  always  be  happy  to 
wait  upon  you;  provided  your  way  is  his  way ;  but 
an  extra  walk  round  a  block  will  put  him  out  of  hu 
mor  for  a  week.  He  will  be  as  unbending  as  a 
church-steeple — as  exacting  as  a  Grand  Turk,  and 
as  impossible  to  please  as  a  teething  baby.  Take 
my  advice,  Mary ;  give  the  old  fossil  the  mitten,  and 
choose  a  male  specimen  who  is  in  the  transition  state, 
and  capable  of  receiving  impressions. 


WINTER. 

HOARY-HEADED  old  Winter,  I  have  had  enough  of 
you!  Not  that  I  shrink  from  facing  your  rough 
breath,  in  a  ten-mile  walk,  on  the  coldest  day  on 
which  you  ever  made  icicles;  for  I  am  no  fair- 
weather  sailor,  not  I;  I  have  no  thousand-dollar 
dress  to  spoil,  and  I  am  not  afraid  to  increase  the 
dimensions  of  my  ankle  by  a  never-to-be-sumciently- 
adored  India-rubber  boot.  I  am  dependent  neither 
upon  cars  nor  ornnibusses,  though  I  am,  like  other 
mortals,  sometimes  brought  up  short  for  want  of  a 
ferry-boat;  but  I  am  tired  of  frozen  ground.  J 
am  tired  of  denuded  trees,  and  leafless  vines  and 
branches,  scraping  against  walls  and  fences,  in  the 
vain  attempt  to  frictionize  a  little  warmth  into  their 
stiffened  limbs.  I  am  tired  of  gray  skies,  and  the 
mournful  wailing  of  the  winter  wind ;  the  stars 


WINTER.  285 

have  a  steel-like  glitter,  and  the  moonbeams  on  the 
snow  petrify  me  like  the  ghost  of  a  smile  on  the  face 
of  a  wire-drawn  old  maid.  I  long,  like  a  prisoned 
bird,  for  a  flight  into  green  fields — I  can  not  sing 
without  the  blossoming  flowers.  I  would  go  to 
sleep  with  them,  nor  wake  till  the  soft  spring  sheds 
warm,  joyful  tears,  to  call  forth  her  hidden  treasures. 

And  yet,  old  Winter,  I  have  liked  thee  less  well 
than  now;  when  the  hungry  fire  devoured 'the  last 
remaining  faggot,  and  Nature's  frozen  face  was  but 
typical  of  the  faces  that  my  adverse  fortune  had  pet 
rified  ;  but  who  cares  for  thee  or  them  ?  So  surely 
as  prosperity  brought  back  their  sycophantic  smiles, 
BO  surely  shall  thy  stiff  neck  be  bowed  before  the 
bounty-laden  Spring.  "Hope  on — hope  ever;"  and 
yet  how  meaningless  fall  these  words  upon  the  ear 
of  the  poor  widow,  who  but  a  stone's  throw  from 
my  window,  sits  watcliing  beside  her  dead  husband, 
heeding  neither  the  wailing  cry  of  the  babe  at  her 
breast,  nor  the  wilder  wail  of  the  winter  wind,  as  it 
drifts  the  snow  against  the  door. 

"  Hope  on — hope  ever."  She  looks  at  you  with 
a  vacant  stare,  and  then  at  the  lifeless  form  before 
her,  as  if  that  were  her  mute  answer.  You  tell  her 
to  trust  in  God,  when  it  is  her  bitterest  sorrow  that 
the  voice  of  her  rebellious  heart  is,  "  Ye  have  taken 
away  my  idol,  and  what  have  I  left  ?" 

"  Left  ?"  poor  mourner.  0,  so  much,  that  you 
can  not  see  until  those  falling  tears  have  cleared 
your  vision  and  eased  your  pain.  "Left?"  the 


*286  FRESH    LEAVES. 

sweet  memory  of  unclouded  earthly  love,  of  which 
not  even  death  can  rob  you ;  tones  and  looks  which 
you  will  count  over,  when  no  human  eye  sees  you, 
as  the  miser  tells  his  hoarded  gold. 

"  Left  ?"  his  child  and  yours,  who,  with  the  blessed 
baptism  of  holy  tears,  you  will  call  God's.  "  Left?" 
0,  many  a  household,  whose  inmates  pressing  their 
anguished  brows  under  living  sorrows,  would  bless 
God  for  the  sweet  memories  of  earthly  love  that  you 
cling  to  in  your  pain.  "  Left  ?"  tearful  mourner ;  a 
crown  to  w^in,  sweeter  for  the  wearing,  when  thorns 
have  pressed  the  brow. 

"  Left?"  a  cross  to  bear,  but  0,  so  light  to  carry, 
when  heaven  is  the  goal  1 

"  One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall  meet  thee. 

Do  not  fear  an  armed  band  ; 
One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee, 
Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

"  Do  not  look  at  life's  long  sorrow, 

See  how  small  each  moment's  pain ; 
God  will  help  thee  for  to-morrow, 
Every  day  begin  again.1' 


A  GAUNTLET  FOR  THE  MEN. 

I  MAINTAIN  it :  all  the  heroism  of  the  present  day 
is  to  be  found  among  women.  I  say  it  to  your 
beards.  I  am  sick  of  such  remarks  as  these :  "  Poor 
fellow !  he  was  unfortunate  in  business,  and  so  he 


A    GAUNTLET    FOR    '1HE    MEN.  287 

took  to  drinking;"  or — '-'poor  fellow  !  he  had  a  bad 
wife,  and  lost  all  heart."  What  does  a  woman  do 
who  is  unfortunate  in  business,  I  would  like  to 
know  ?  Why — she  tries  again,  of  course,  and  keeps 
on  trying  to  the  end  of  the  chapter,  notwithstanding 
the  pitiful  remuneration  man  bestows  upon  her  la 
bor,  notwithstanding  his  oft-repeated  attempts  to 
eheat  her  out  of  it  when  she  has  earned  it !  What 
docs  a  woman  do,  who  has  a  bad,  improvident  hus 
band  ?  Works  all  the  harder,  to  be  sure,  to  make 
up  his  deficiencies  to  her  household ;  works  day  and 
night ;  smiles  when  her  heart  and  back  are  both 
breaking ;  speaks  hopeful  words  when  her  very  soul 
is  dying  within  her ;  denies  herself  the  needed  mor 
sel  to  increase  her  children's  portion,  and  crushed 
neither  by  the  iron  gripe  of  poverty,  nor  allured  by 
the  Judas-smile  of  temptation,  hopefully  puts  her 
trust  in  Him  who  feedeth  the  sparrows. 

She  "  the  weaker  sex  ?"  Out  on  your  pusillan 
imous  manhood !  "  Took  to  drinking  because  he 
was  unhappy  !"  Bless — his — big — Spartan — soul ! 
How  I  admire  him  !  Couldn't  live  a  minute  with 
out  he  had  every  thing  to  his  mind ;  never  had  the 
slightest  idea  of  walking  round  an  obstacle,  or  jump 
ing  over  it ;  never  practiced  that  sort  of  philosophical 
gymnastics — couldn't  grit  his  teeth  at  fate,  and  defy 
it  to  do  its  worst,  because  they  chattered  so ; — poor 
fellow  !  Wanted  buttered  toast,  and  had  to  eat  dry 
bread  ;  liked  "  2.40,"  and  had  to  go  a-foot ;  fond  of 
wine,  and  had  to  drink  Croton;  couldn't  smoke, 


288  FRESH    LEAVES. 

though  his  stove-pipe  did ;  rushed  out  of  the  world, 
and  left  his  wife  and  children  to  battle  with  the  fate 
that  his  coward  soul  was  afraid  to  meet.  Brave, 
magnanimous  fellow ! 

Again — we  are  constantly  hearing  that  the  ex 
travagance  of  women  debars  young  men  from  the 
bliss  of  matrimony.  Poor  things  !  they  can't  select 
a  wife  from  out  the  frivolous  circle  of  fashion ;  there 
are  no  refined,  well-educated,  lady-like,  practical 
girls  and  women,  whom  any  man,  with  a  man's  soul, 
might  be  proud  to  call  wife,  nobly  struggling  for  an 
honest  maintenance  as  writers,  governesses,  teach 
ers,  semptresses,  and  milliners.  They  never  read 
such  an  advertisement  as  this  in  the  papers  : 

"  Wanted,  by  a  young  girl,  a  situation  as  governess.  She  can 
teach  the  English  branches,  French  and  Italian ;  and  is  willing  to 
accept  a  small  remuneration,  to  secure  a  respectable  home," 

Fudge !  None  so  blind  as  they  who  worit  see. 
The  truth  is,  most  of  the  young  men  of  the  present 
day  are  selfish  to  the  backbone.  "  Poor,"  too — very 
poor ! — never  go  to  Shelby's  or  Delmonico's  for  a 
nice  little  game  supper,  washed  down  with  cham 
pagne  at  $2  a  bottle  j  never  smoke 'dozens  of  cigars 
a  day,  at  six  cents  a  piece ;  never  invite — themselves 
to  go  to  concerts,  the  opera,  or  the  theater !  Wish 
they  could  afford  to  get  married,  but  can't,  at  least 
not  till,  as  they  elegantly  express  it,  "  they  meet  a 
pretty  girl  who  has  the  tin." 


SOLILOQUY  OF  A  LITERARY  HOUSEKEEPER.       289 

SOLILOQUY  OF  A  LITERARY   HOUSE 
KEEPER. 

':  SPRING  cleaning !"  Oh  misery  I  Ceilings  to  be 
whitewashed,  walls  to  be  cleaned,  paint  to  be  scour 
ed,  carpets  to  be  taken  up,  shaken,  and  put  down 
again ;  scrubbing  women,  painters,  and  whitewash- 
ers,  all  engaged  for  months  a-head,  or  beginning  on 
your  house  to  secure  the  job,  and  then  running  off  a 
day  to  somebody  else's  to  secure  another.  Yes, 
spring  cleaning  to  be  done ;  closets,  bags,  and  bas 
kets  to  be  disemboweled ;  furs  and  woolens  to  be 
packed  away ;  children's  last  summer  clothes  to  be 
inspected  (not  a  garment  that  will  fit — all  grown  up 
like  Jack's  bean-stalk) ;  spring  cleaning,  sure  enough. 
I  might  spring  my  feet  off  and  not  get  all  that  done. 
When  is  that  book  of  mine  to  get  written,  I'd  like 
to  know?  It's  Ma'am,  will  you  have  this?  and 
Ma'am,  will  you  have  that  ?  and  Ma'am,  will  you 
have  the  other  thing  ?  May  I  be  kissed  if  I  hadn't 
more  time  to  write  when  I  lived  in  an  attic  on  salt 
and  potatoes,  and  scrubbed  the  floor  myself.  Must 
I  turn  my  house  topsy-turvy,  and  inside  out,  once  a 
year,  because  my  grandmother  did,  and  send  my 
MSS.  flying  to  the  four  winds,  for  this  traditionary 
"  spring  cleaning."  Spring  fiddlestick !  Must  I  buy 
up  all  Broadway  to  be  made  into  dresses,  because  all 
New  York  women  go  fashion-mad?  What's  the 
use  of  having  a  house,  if  you  can't  do  as  you  like  in 
it  ?  What's  the  use  of  being  an  authoress,  if  you 
19 


290  FRESH    LEAVES. 

can't  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  a  shabby  bonnet,  or  a 
comfortable  old  dress  ?  What's  the  use  of  dressing 
when  your  cook  can  outshine  you  ?  What  is  the 
use  of  dragging  brocade  and  velvet  through  ferry 
boats  and  omnibusses,  to  serve  as  mats  for  market- 
baskets  and  dirty  boots?  "  There  goes  Lily  Lark 
spur,  the  authoress,  in  that  everlasting  old  black 
silk."  Well — what's  the  use  of  being  well  off,  if  you 
can't  wear  old  clothes.  If  I  was  poor,  as  I  was 
once,  I  couldn't  afford  it.  Do  you  suppose  I'm  go 
ing  to  wrinkle  up  my  face,  scowling  at  unhappy  lit 
tle  boys  for  treading  on  a  five-hundred-dollar  silk  ? 
or  fret  myself  into  a  fever  because  some  gentleman 
throws  a  cigar-stump  on  its  lustrous  trailing  folds  ? 
no,  no ;  life  is  too  short,  for  that,  and  much  too  earn 
est.  Give  me  good  health — the  morning  for  writ 
ing,  and  no  interruptions,  plenty  of  fresh  air  after 
wards,  and  an  old  gown  to  enjoy  it  in,  and  you  may 
mince  along  in  your  peacock  dry-goods  till  your  soul 
is  as  shriveled  as  your  body. 


A  BREAKFAST-TABLE   REVERIE. 

I  LOOKED  up — they  were  laughing  at  me — I  am 
accustomed  to  be  laughed  at — so  it  neither  moved 
nor  astonished  me.  They  had  been  laughing  be 
cause  I  had  been  reading  so  long,  and  so  intently, 
the  advertising  page  of  my  daily  paper.  And  why 


A    BREAKFAST-TABLE    REVERIE.  291 

uot  ?  when  it  is  often  to  me  the  most  interest 
ing  part  of  it.  To  be  sure,  I  look  at  it  with  a 
pair  of  eyes  that  have  not  always  been  undimmed 
with  tears ;  I  think  sometimes  of  the  unwritten 
tragedy  there  may  be  in  a  four-line  advertisement 
which  scarce  arrests  the  careless,  laughing  eye.  I 
think  of  the  days  and  nights  of  misery  it  took,  the 
suffering  and  privation,  to  goad  the  sensitive  heart 
up  to  its  first  appeal  to  the  public  ear — the  trembling 
fingers  which  may  have  penned  it — the  tears  which 
well-nigh  obliterated  it — the  leaden  feet  which  bore 
it,  almost  helplessly,  to  its  destination. 

No,  I  was  not  vexed  that  they  laughed  at  me,  for 
how  should  they,  whose  life-path  had  been  always 
flower-bestrewn,  think  of  these  sad  things  ? 

I  had  been  reading  what  follows.     Listen 

"A  young  lady,  suddenly  thrown  upon  her  own  resources  for 
support,  desires  a  situation  as  Governess.  She  can  teach  all  tbe 
English  branches,  understands  French,  German,  and  Italian, 
and  would  be  willing  to  accept  even  the  smallest  compensation." 

I  saw  her!  homeless — friendless — heart-broken; 
willing  to  accept  the  most  humiliating,  grinding  con 
ditions  for  a  safe  and  immediate  shelter  for  her  inno 
cence.  I  saw  the  cold,  calculating  eye  of  some 
lady  fashionist  fasten  upon  the  touching  appeal.  I 
saw  her  place  the  young  girl's  pressing  necessities  in 
one  scale,  and  her  avarice  in  the  other.  I  saw  her 
include,  in  her  acceptance  of  the  post  of  governess, 
that  of  lace-laundress  and  nursery-maid ;  and  I  saw 
the  poor  young  creature  meekly,  even  thankfully, 


292  FRESH    LEAVES. 

accept  the  conditions,  while  her  wealthy  patroness 
questioned  her  qualifications,  depreciated  her  serv 
ices,  and  secretly  rejoiced  at  securing  such  a  prize, 
at  such  an  economical  rate  of  compensation. 

I  saw  another  young  girl  similarly  situated,  but 
even  less  fortunate  than  the  one  of  whom  I  have 
spoken.  I  saw  the  libidinous  eye  of  a  wretch  who 
reads  the  advertising  sheet  with  an  eye  to  "  young 
governesses,"  fasten  upon  her  advertisement.  I  saw 
him  engage  her,  as  he  has  others,  for  some  fictitious 
family,  in  some  fictitious  place,  constituting  himself 
the  head  of  it,  and  her  escort  on  the  way — only  to 
turn,  alas !  her  sweet  innocent  trust  into  the  bitter 
channel  of  a  life-long  and  unavailing  remorse. 

I  took  up  the  paper  and  read  again : 

"  Who  -wants  a  boy  ? — A  widower,  with  six  children,  will  dis 
pose  of  an  infant  to  some  family  inclined  to  receive  it." 

That  a  widower  might  possibly  be  so  situated  as 
to  render  such  a  measure  necessary,  I  could  con 
ceive,  but  that  a  father  could  pen  such  a  brusque, 
hilarious,  jocular  —  "  halloa-there"  —  announcement 
of  the  fact,  rather  stunned  me. 

"  Who  wants  a  boy?" 

As  if  it  were  a  colt,  or  a  calf,  or  a  six-weeks 
young  pup — or  any  thing  under  heaven  but  his  own 
flesh  and  blood  !  as  if  the  little  innocent  had  never 
lain  beneath  the  loving  heart  of  her  whose  last  throb 
was  for  its  sweet  helplessness — last  prayer  for  its 
vailed  future. 


A    BREAKFAST-TABLE    REVERIE.  293 

Shade  of  the  mother  hover  over  that  child ! 
I  read  again : 

41  Information  wanted  of  a  little  girl,  -who,  at  the  age  of  five 
years,  was  placed,  ten  years  ago,  in alms-house." 

I  thought  of  her  cheerless  childhood  (as  I  looked 
around  my  own  bright  hearthstone  at  my  own  happy 
children).  I  saw  her  yearning  vainly  for  the  sweet 
ties  of  kindred.  I  followed  her  from  thence  out 
into  the  world,  where  all  but  herself,  even  the  hum 
blest,  seem  to  have  some  human  tie  to  make  life 
sweet;  I  saw  her  wandering  hither  and  thither, 
like  Noah's  weary  dove,  without  finding  the  heart's 
resting-place;  wondering,  when  she  had  time  to 
wonder  (for  the  heavy  burden  of  daily  toil  which 
her  slender  shoulders  bent  beneath),  if  one  heart 
yet  beats  on  G-od's  green  earth,  through  which  her 
own  life-tide  flows. 

I  think  of  this — I  wonder  who  it  is  who  u  wants 
information"  concerning  her.  I  wonder  is  it  some 
remorseful  relative,  some  brother,  some  sister,  some 
father  whose  heart  is  at  length  touched  with  pity 
for  the  unrecognized  little  exile — ay— such  things 
have  been! 

"  Clerks  out  of  employment." 

Need  it  be  ?  With  acres  of  fertile  earth  lying  fair 
in  the  broad  sunshine,  waiting  only  the  touch  of 
their  sinewy  muscles,  to  throw  out  uncounted  em 
bryo  treasures,  while  ruddy  Health  stands  smiling  at 
the  plow ! 


294  FRESH    LEAVES. 

Then  I  read  of  starving  seamstresses,  with  no 
stock  in  trade  but  their  needle ;  nothing  but  that  too 
often,  God  help  them !  between  their  souls  and  per 
dition  ;  and,  then,  in  the  very  face  of  my  womanly 
instincts,  I  say,  let  them  lecture — let  them  preach — 
let  them  even  be  doctors,  if  they  will  (provided 
they  keep  their  hands  off  me  !) 

Then  I  read,  alas !  advertisements,  which  prom 
ise  youth  and  purity  to  lead  them  through  the 
scorching  fires  of  sin  unharmed,  unscathed,  which 
say  that  the  penalty  annexed  by  a  just  G-od  to  his 
violated  laws  (even  in  this  world),  they  will  turn 
aside ;  that  a  man  can  take  fire  into  his  bosom  and 
not  be  burned.  And  then  I  think  that  the  editor 
who  for  paltry  gain,  throws  such  firebrands  into 
pure  and  happy  homes  should  look  well  that  the  blight 
fall  not  on  his  own. 

But  there  is  comedy  as  well  as  tragedy  in  an  ad 
vertising  sheet.  I  am  fond  of  poetry;  my  eye 
catches  a  favorite  extract  from  Longfellow,  or  Bry 
ant,  or  Percival,  or  Morris;  I  read  it  over  with  re 
newed  pleasure,  blessing  the  author  in  my  heart  the 
while.  I  am  decoyed  into  the  building  to  which  it 
serves  as  a  fairy  vestibule.  Where  do  I  find  myself? 

By  Parnassus!  in  a  carpet- warehouse — in  a 
sausage-shop — in  a  druggist's — shoemaker's — tailor's 
— or  hatter's  establishment. 

Who  shall  circumscribe  American  ingenuity  where 
dollars  and  cents  are  concerned  ? 

Answer  me,  great  Barnum ! 


A    GLANCE   AT   A    CHAMELEON   SUBJECT.      295 


A  GLANCE  AT  A  CHAMELEON   SUBJECT. 

"  TELL  you  what  are  the  fashions  ?"  I,  who  am 
sick  of  the  very  word  fashion?  who  could  shake 
hands  with  every  rustic  I  meet,  for  very  delight  at 
his  napless  hat,  and  ark-like  coat  ? 

You  should  be  surfeited,  as  I  am,  with  harlequin 
costumes ;  disgusted,  as  I  am,  with  troops  of  women, 
strutting,  like  peacocks,  to  show  their  plumage ;  but 
who,  less  sensible  than  peacocks,  never  shed  their 
feathers.  You  should  see  brocades,  and  silk  velvets, 
fit  only  for  carriage  or  dinner  dresses,  daily  mopping 
up  the  tobacco  pools  on  these  unmitigatedly  nasty 
sidewalks.  You  should  see  the  gay  little  bonnets, 
and  oh  I  you  should  see  the  vapid,  expression-less, 
soul-less  faces'  beneath  them.  You  should  see  the 
carriages,  with  their  liveried  servants,  in  our  repub 
lican  streets,  and  the  faces,  seamed  with  ennui  and 
discontent,  which  peer  through  the  windows,  from 
beneath  folds  of  lace  and  satin. 

You  should  see  how  this  dress  furore  infects  every 
class  and  circle.  You  should  see  the  young  appren 
tice  girl,  who  can  afford  but  one  bonnet,  buying  a 
flimsy  dress-hat,  to  be  worn  in  all  weathers ;  secur 
ing  for  Sunday,  a  showy  silk  dress  and  gilt  brace 
let,  when  she  has  hardly  a  decent  chemise,  or 
petticoat,  and  owns,  perhaps,  but  one  handkerchief, 
and  a  couple  of  pairs  of  stockings.  You  should  see 
the  wife  of  the  young  mechanic,  with  her  embroid- 


296  FRESH    LEAVES. 

ered  pocket-handkerchief,  and  flaunting  pink  para 
sol,  while  she  can  number  but  one  pair  of  sheets, 
and  one  table-cloth.  You  should  see  her  children, 
with  their  plumed  hats,  while  parti-colored,  dilapi 
dated  petticoats  peep  from  beneath  their  dresses, 
and  they  are  shivering  for  the  want  of  warm  flan 
nels.  You  should  see  the  servant-girl,  with  her 
greasy  flounces,  and  soiled  artificial  flowers.  You 
should  see  young  men,  with  staring  diamond  pins 
stuck  on  their  coarse  shirt-bosoms,  with  shabby  vel 
vet  vests,  and  mock  chains  looped  over  them. 

You  should  go  into  the  "  furnishing  stores  for  ladies' 
and  children's  garments ;"  and  see  how  impossible  it 
is  to  find  plain,  substantial  articles  of  clothing  for 
either — two  thirds,  at  least,  of  the  cost  of  every  arti 
cle  being  for  elaborate  trimming,  and  ruffling,  and 
useless  embroidery.  You  should  go  into  the  "  la 
dies'  cloak  stores,"  and  see  these  garments  loaded 
indeed  with  gay  trimmings,  but  miserably  thin,  and 
ill-adapted  for  winter  wear;  hence  the  stories  of 
garments  you  frequently  notice  on  New  York  la 
dies  (as  winter  intensifies),  as  if  one  good,  sensible, 
thickly- wadded,  old-fashioned,  outside  garment, 
could,  by  any  possibility,  be  more  awkward  and 
ugly  than  such  an  "  arrangement,"  and  as  if  it  were 
not  a  million  degrees  more  comfortable,  and  less 
troublesome ;  but,  then — Fashion  says,  No  ! 

"  Tell  you  the  fashions  ?" 

Excuse  my  rambling.  Well  j  here  they  are,  as 
near  as  I  can  find  out : 


FACTS    FOB   UXJUST    CRIIICS.  297 

Puff  your  hair  and  your  skirts.  Lace  your  lungs 
and  your  handkerchief.  Put  on  the  most  stunning 
dress  you  can  find ;  wear  it  of  a  stumbling  length, 
because  Queen  Victoria's  royal  ankles  are  thick. 

Take  a  handful  of  artificial  roses,  each  of  a  differ 
ent  color,  half  a  dozen  yards  of  ribbon  ditto,  lace 
ditto.  '  Secure  them,  for  a  bonnet,  to  your  bump  of 
amativeness,  with  two  long  pins.  Then  sprinkle 
the  contents  of  a  jeweler's  shop  promiscuously  over 
your  person  ;  and  by  no  means,  before  you  go  out, 
omit  drawing  on  a  pair  of  bright  yellow  gloves ;  that 
sine  qua  non  of  a  New  York  woman's  toilette. 

"Tell  you  the  fashions?"  Take  a  walk  down 
Broadway,  and  see  for  yourself.  If  you  have  a  par 
ticle  of  sense,  it  will  cure  you  of  your  absorbing 
interest  in  that  question  during  your  natural  life, 
though  your  name  be  written  "  Methuselah." 


FACTS   FOR   UNJUST    CRITICS. 

A  FEW  scraps  from  the  "  Life  of  Charlotte  Bronte," 
that  I  would  like  to  see  pasted  up  in  editorial  offices 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  land :  - 

"  She,  Miss  Bronte,  especially  disliked  the  lower 
ing  of  the  standard  by  which  to  judge  a  work  of 
fiction  if  it  proceeded  from  a  feminine  pen ;  and 
praise,  mingled  wth  pseudo-gallant  allusions  to  her 
sex,  mortified  her  far  more  than  actual  blame. 


298  FRESH    LEAVES. 

"  Come  what  will,"  she  says,  "I  can  not,  when  I 
write,  think  always  of  myself,  and  of  what  is  ele 
gant  and  charming  in  femininity ;  it  is  not  on  these 
terms,  or  with  such  ideas,  that  I  ever  took  pen  in 
hand,  and  if  it  is  only  on  these  terms  my  writing 
will  be  tolerated,  I  shall  pass  away  from  the  public 
and  trouble  it  no  more. 

"  I  wish  all  reviewers  believed  me  to  be  a  man ; 
they  would  be  more  just  to  me.  They  will,  I  know, 
keep  measuring  me  by  some  standard  of  what  they 
deem  becoming  to  my  sex ;  where  I  am  not  what 
they  consider  graceful,  they  will  condemn  me. 

"  No  matter — whether  known  or  unknown — mis 
judged  or  the  contrary — I  am  resolved  not  to  write 
otherwise.  /  shall  lend  as  my  powers  tend.  The 
two  human  beings  who  understood  me  are  gone ;  I 
have  some  who  love  me  yet,  and  whom  I  love,  with 
out  expecting  or  having  a  right  to  expect  they  shall 
perfectly  understand  me.  I  am  satisfied,  but  I  must 
have  my  own  way  in  the  matter  of  writing.11 

Speaking  of  some  attacks  on  Miss  Bronte,  her 
biographer  says : 

"  Flippancy  takes  a  graver  name,  when  directed 
against  an  author  by  an  anonymous  writer ;  we  then 
call  it  cowardly  insolence." 

She  also  says : 

"  It  is  well  that  the  thoughtless  critics,  who  spoke 
of  the  sad  and  gloomy  views  of  life  presented  by 
the  Brontes  in  their  teles,  should  know  how  such 
words  were  wrung  out  of  them  by  the  living  recol- 


FACTS    FOB   UNJUST    CRITICS.  299 

lection  of  the  long  agony  they  suffered.  It  is  well, 
too,  that  they  who  have  objected  to  the  representa 
tion  of  coarseness,  and  shrank  from  it  with  repug 
nance,  as  if  such  conception  arose  out  of  the  writers, 
should  learn,  that  not  from  the  imagination,  not  from 
internal  conception — but  from  the  hard  cruel  facts, 
pressed  down,  by  an  external  life  upon  their  very 
sense*,  for  long  months  and  years  together,  did  they 
write  out  what  they  saw,  obeying  the  stern  dictates  of 
their  consciences.  They  might  be  mistaken.  They 
might  err  in  writing  at  all,  when  their  afflictions 
were  so  great  that  they  could  not  write  otherwise 
than  as  they  did  of  life.  It  is  possible  that  it  would 
have  been  better  to  have  described  good  and  pleas 
ant  people,  doing  only  good  and  pleasant  things  (in 
which  case  they  could  hardly  have  written  at  any 
time)  :  all  I  say  is,  that  never,  I  believe,  did  women 
possessed  of  such  wonderful  gifts  exercise  them  with 
a  fuller  feeling  of  responsibility  for  their  use." 

A  friend  of  Miss  Bronte  says : 

"  The  world  heartily,  greedily  enjoyed  the  fruits 
of  Miss  Bronte's  labors,  and  then  found  out  she  was 
much  to  blame  for  possessing  such  faculties  " 

Mrs.  Gaskell  says : 

"So  utterly  unconscious  was  Miss  Bronte  of 
what  was  by  some  esteemed  '  coarse'  in  her  writ 
ings,  that  on  one  occasion,  when  the  conversation 
turned  upon  women's  writing  fiction — she  said,  in 
her  grave,  earnest  way,  ( I  hope  Q-od  will  take  away 
from  me  whatever  power  of  invention,  or  expres- 


300  FRESH    LEAVES. 

sion  I  may  have,  before  he  lets  me  become  blind  to 
the  sense  of  what  is  fitting,  or  unfitting  to  be  said.'  " 

Fanny  Fern  says : 

I  would  that  all  who  critically  finger*  women's 
books,  would  read  and  ponder  these  extracts.  I 
would  that  reviewers  had  a  more  fitting  sense  of 
their  responsibility,  in  giving  their  verdicts  to  the 
public ;  permitting  themselves  to  be  swayed  neither 
by  personal  friendship,  nor  private  pique  ;  speaking 
honestly,  by  all  means,  but  remembering  their  own 
sisters,  when  they  would  point  a  flippant,  smart  arti 
cle  by  disrespectful  mention  of  a  lady  writer  /  or  by 
an  unmanly,  brutal  persistence  in  tearing  from  her 
face  the  mask  of  incognito-ship,  which  she  has,  if  she 
pleases,  an  undoubted  right  to  wear.  I  would  that 
they  would  speak  respectfully  of  those  whose  pure, 
self-denying  life,  has  been  through  trials  and  temp 
tations  under  which  their  strong  natures  would 
have  succumbed;  and  who  tremblingly  await  the 
public  issue  of  days  and  nights  of  single-handed, 
single-hearted  weariness  and  toil.  Not  that  a 
woman's  book  should  be  praised  because  it  is  a 
woman's,  nor,  on  the  contrary,  condemned  for  that 
reason.  But  as  you  would  shrink  from  seeing  a  ruf 
fian's  hand  laid  upon  your  sister's  gentle  shoulder, 
deal  honestly,  but,  I  pray  you,  courteously,  with 
those  whose  necessities  have  forced  them  out  from 
the  blessed  shelter  of  the  home  circle,  into  jostling 
contact  with  rougher  natures. 


TRY   AGAIN.  301 


TRY    AGAIN. 

"No  woman  ever  produced  a  great  painting  or 
statue." — Ex. 

On  the  contrary,  she  has  produced  a  great  many 
"statues,"  who  may  be  seen  any  sunshiny  day, 
walking  Broadway,  in  kid  gloves  and  perfumed 
broadcloth,  while  "  Lawrence"  lies  in  ashes. 

"  No  woman  ever  wrote  a  great  drama." — Ex. 

Ay — but  they  have  lived  one ;  and  when  worn 
out  with  suffering  at  hands  which  should  have 
shielded  them,  have  died  without  a  murmur  on  their 
martyr  lips. 

"  No  woman  ever  composed  a  great  piece  of  mu 
sic." — Ex. 

What  do  you  call  a  baby  ? 

"  No  woman  was  ever  a  great  cook !" — Ex. 

True — it  takes  a  man  to  get  up  a  broil. 

"  Women  have  invented  nothing  outside  of  milli 
nery  since  the  world  began." — Ex. 

How  can  they  ?  when  they  are  so  hooped  in  ? 

"  Women  have  written  clever  letters,  tolerable 
novels,  and  intolerable  epics." — Ex. 

Indeed !  It  strikes  me,  though,  that  we  have 
furnished  you  the  material  for  yours ;  just  tell  me 
what  your  "  letters,"  your  "  novels,"  your  "  epics," 
would  have  amounted  to,  without  the  inspiring 
theme — woman.  When  the  world  furnishes  us  he 
roes,  perhaps  we  shall  write  splendid  novels,  and 


,302  FRESH    LEAVES. 

splendid  epics.     Pharaoh  once  required  bricks  to  be 
made  "  without  straw." 

" Letters?"  No  man,  since  the  world  began; 
could  pen  a  letter  equal  to  a  woman.  Look  at  the 
abortions  dignified  by  that  name  in  men-novels; 
stiltified — unnatural — stiff — pedantic,  or  else  coarse. 
You  can  no  more  do  it  than  an  elephant  can  waltz. 
The  veriest  school  girl  can  surpass  you  at  it.  I  have 
often  heard  men  confess  it  (when  off  their  guard). 
One  thing  at  least  we  know  enough  to  do,  viz. : 
when  we  wish  to  make  one  of  your  sex  our  eternal 
and  unchangeable  friend  we  always  allow  him  to 
beat  us  in  an  argument. 


FAIR   PLAY; 

OR,    BOTH   SIDES   OF   THE   STORY. 

"  IT  is  too  bad,"  said  a  lady  to  me,  not  long  since, 
"  it  is  too  bad ;  I  am  almost  tired  to  death."  She 
had  been  to  York  on  a  shopping  expedition ;  and, 
having  finished  her  purchases,  and  returned,  laden 
with  them  to  the  ferry,  found  two  thirds  of  the 
seats  in  the  ladies'  cabin  of  the  ferry-boat  occupied 
by  ?7^e?^,  while  she  and  several  other  ladies  were 
compelled  to  stand  till  the  boat  reached  the  pier. 
"  It  is  too  bad,"  she  repeated ;  "  they  have  no  right 
to  occupy  the  ladies'  cabin,  when  ladies  are  standing. 
Give  them  a  dig,  Fanny,  won't  you  ?" 


FAIR    PLAY.  303 

"  Of  course  I  will,"  said  I ;  "  the  case,  to  my  mind, 
is  clearly  against  the  coat-tails ;  more  especially,  as, 
when  the  boat  touches  the  pier,  they  rush  past  the 
ladies,  and  by  right  of  their  pantaloons  leap  over  the 
chain  (which  femininity  must  wait  to  see  unhooked), 
in  order  to  monopolize  all  the  seats  in  the  street 
cars,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  aforesaid  dismayed  and 
weary  ladies.  Most  certainly  I  will  give  them  a 
dig,  my  dear  ;  it  is  an  exhibition  of  '  grab'  which  is 
quite  disgusting." 

But  stay — have  the  ladies  no  sins  to  answer  for  ? 
May  it  not  be  just  possible  that  the  men  are  at  last 
getting  weary  of  rendering  civilities  to  women  who 
receive  them  as  a  matter  of  right,  without  even  an 
acknowledging  smile,  or  "  Thank  you  ?"  May  they 
not  have  tired  of  creeping,  with  an  abject  air,  into 
cars  and  omnibusses,  and  gradually  and  circum 
spectly  lowering  themselves  amid  such  billows  of 
hoops  and  flounces  ?  May  they  not  at  last  have  be 
come  disgusted  at  the  absurd  selfishness  which  ladies 
manifest  on  these  occasions?  the  "sit  closer,  ladies/' 
of  the  conductors  and  drivers  being  met  with  a  pout 
ing  frown,  or,  at  best,  the  emigration  of  the  six 
teenth  part  of  an  inch  to  the  right  or  left.  And  is 
it  not  a  shame,  that  a  deprecating  blush  should  crim 
son  a  gentleman's  forehead  because  he  ventures  to 
seat  himself,  in  a  public  conveyance,  in  the  proxim 
ity  of  these  abominable,  limb-disguising,  uncomfort 
able,  monopolizing  hoops  ?  Women  who  are  blessed 
with  hips,  should  most  certainly  discard  these 


304  FRESH    LEAVES. 

nuisances,  and  women  who  are  not,  should  know 
that  narrow  shoulders,  and  a  bolster  conformation, 
look  more  ramrod-y  still,  in  contrast  with  this  arti 
ficial  voluminousness  of  the  lower  story. 

And  then  the  little  girls !  The  idea  of  hunting 
under  these  humbugs  of  hoops,  for  little  fairy  girls, 
whose  antelope  motions  are  thus  circumscribed, 
their  graceful  limbs  hidden,  and  their  gleeful  sports 
checked — the  monstrosity  of  making  hideous  their 
perfect  proportions,  and  rendering  them  a  laughing 
stock  to  every  jeering  boy  whom  they  meet ;  and — 
worse  than  all — the  irreparable  moral  wrong  of 
teaching  them  that  comfort  and  decency  must  be 
sacrificed  to  Fashion !  Bah! — I  have  no  patience  to 
think  of  it.  I  turn  my  pained  eyes  for  relief  to  the 
little  ragged  romps  who  run  round  the  streets,  with 
one  thin  garment,  swaying  artistically  to  the  motion 
of  their  unfettered  limbs.  I  rush  into  the  sculptor's 
studio,  and  feast  my  eyes  on  limbs  which  have  no 
drapeiy  at  all. 

Yes,  it  is  trying  to  feminine  ankles  and  patience, 
to  have  gentlemen  occupy  ladies'  places  in  the  u  la 
dies'  cabin,"  and  gentlemen  who  do  this  will  please 
consider  themselves  rebuked  for  it;  but  it  is  also 
disgusting,  that  women  have  not  fortitude  sufficient 
to  discard  the  universal  and  absurd  custom  of  wear 
ing  hoops.  Nay,  more,  I  afiirm  that  any  woman 
who  has  not  faith  enough  in  her  Maker's  taste  and 
wisdom,  to  prefer  her  own  bones  to  a  whale's,  de 
serves  the  fate  of  Jonah — minus  the  ejectment. 


TO    GENTLEMEN.  306 

TO    GENTLEMEN. 

A     CALL     TO     BE     A     HUSBAND. 

YES,  I  did  say  that  "  it  is  not  every  man  who  has 
a  call  to  be  a  husband;"  and  I  am  not  going  to  back 
out  of  it 

Has  that  man  a  call  to  be  a  husband,  who,  having 
wasted  his  }^outh  in  excesses,  looks  around  him  at 
the  eleventh  hour  for  a  "virtuous  young  girl"  (such 
men  have  the  effrontery  to  be  very  particular  on  this 
point),  to  nurse  up  his  damaged  constitution,  and 
perpetuate  it  in  their  offspring  ? 

Has  that  man  a  call  to  be  a  husband,  who,  believ 
ing  that  the  more  the  immortal  within  us  is  devel 
oped  in  this  world,  the  higher  we  shall  rank  with 
heavenly  intelligences  in  the  next,  yet  deprecate* 
for  a  wife  a  woman  of  thought  and  intellect,  lest  a 
marriage  with  such  should  peril  the  seasoning  of  his 
favorite  pudding,  or  lest  she  might  presume  in  any 
of  her  opinions  to  be  aught  else  than  his  echo  ? 

Has  that  man  a  call  to  be  a  husband,  who,  when 
the  rosy  maiden  he  married  is  transformed  by  too 
early  an  introduction  to  the  cares  and  trials  of  ma 
ternity,  into  a  feeble,  confirmed  invalid,  turns  impa 
tiently  from  the  restless  wife's  sick-room,  to  sun 
himself  in  the  perfidious  smile  of  one  whom  he  would 
blush  to  name  in  that  wife's  pure  ears  ? 

Has  he  any  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  adds  to  his 
wife's  manifold  cares  that  of  selecting  and  providing 
20 


306  FRESH    LEAVES. 

the  household  stores,  and  inquires  of  her,  at  that, 
how  she  spent  the  surplus  shilling  of  yesterday's  ap 
propriation  ? 

Has  he  any  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  permits  his 
own  relatives,  in  his  hearing,  to  speak  disrespect 
fully  or  censoriously  of  his  wife  ? 

Has  he  any  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  reads  the 
newspaper  from  beginning  to  end,  giving  notice  of 
his  presence  to  the  weary  wife,  who  is  patiently 
mending  his  old  coat,  only  by  an  occasional  "  Ju 
piter  !"  which  may  mean,  to  the  harrowed  listener, 
that  we  have  a  President  worth  standing  in  a  driv 
ing  rain,  at  the  tail  of  a  three-mile  procession,  to 
vote  for,  or — the  contrary  ?  and  who,  after  having 
extracted  every  particle  of  news  the  paper  contains, 
coolly  puts  it  in  one  of  his  many  mysterious  pockets, 
and  goes  to  sleep  in  his  chair  ? 

Has  he  a  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  carries  a  let 
ter,  intended  for  his  wife,  in  his  pocket  for  six 
weeks,  and  expects  any  thing  short  of  "  gunpowder 
tea"  for  his  supper  that  night  ? 

Has  he  a  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  leaves  his  wife 
to  blow  out  the  lamp,  and  stub  her  precious  little 
toes  while  she  is  navigating  for  the  bed-post  ? 

Has  he  a  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  tells  his  wife 
"  to  walk  on  a  couple  of  blocks  and  he  will  overtake 
her,"  and  then  joins  in  a  hot  political  discussion  with 
an  opponent,  after  which,  in  a  fit  of  absence  of  mind, 
he  walks  off  home,  leaving  his  wife  transformed  by 
his  perfidy  into  "  a  pillar  of  salt?" 


TO    THE    LADIES.  307 

Has  he  any  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  sits  down  on 
his  wife's  best  bonnet,  or  puts  her  shawl  over  her 
shoulders  upside  down,  or  wrong  side  out  at  the 
Opera  ? 

Has  he  any  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  goes  "  un 
beknown"  to  his  wife,  to  some  wretch  of  a  barber, 
and  parts,  for  twenty-five  cents,  with  a  beard  which 
she  has  coaxed  from  its  first  infantile  sprout,  to  luxuri 
ant,  full-grown,  magnificent,  unsurpassable  hirsute- 
ness,  and  then  comes  home  to  her  horrified  vision  a 
pocket  edition  of  Moses  ? 

Has  he  any  call  to  be  a  husband,  who  kisses  his 
wife  only  on  Saturday  night,  when  he  winds  up  the 
clock  and  pays  the  grocer,  and  who  never  notices, 
day  by  day,  the  neat  dress,  and  shining  bands  of 
hair  arranged  to  please  his  stupid  milk-and-water- 
ship  ? 


TO    THE    LADIES. 

A      CALL      TO      BE     A     WIFE. 

HAS  that  woman  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  thinks 
more  of  her  silk  dress  than  of  her  children,  and  visits 
her  nursery  no  oftener  than  once  a  day  ? 

Has  that  woman  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  cries  for 
a  cashmere  shawl  when  her  husband's  notes  are 
being  protested  ? 

Has  that  woman  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  sits 
reading  the  last  new  novel,  while  her  husband  stands 


308  FRESH    LEAVES. 

before  the  glass,  vainly  trying  to  pin  together  a  but- 
tonless  shirt-bosom  ? 

Has  that  woman  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  expects 
her  husband  to  swallow  diluted  coffee,  soggy  bread, 
smoky  tea,  and  watery  potatoes,  six  days  out  of  seven? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  keeps  her  hus 
band  standing  on  one  leg  a  full  hour  in  the  street, 
while  she  is  saying  that  interminable  "  last  word"  to 
some  female  acquaintance  ? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  flirts  with  every 
man  she  meets,  and  reserves  her  frowns  for  the 
home  fireside  ? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  comes  down  to 
breakfast  in  abominable  curl-papers,  a  soiled  dressing- 
gown,  and  shoes  down  at  the  heel? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  bores  her  hus 
band,  when  he  comes  into  the  house,  with  the  his 
tory  of  a  broken  tea-cup,  or  the  possible  whereabouts 
of  a  missing  broom-handle  ? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  whose  husband's  love 
weighs  naught  in  the  balance  with  her  next  door 
neighbor's  damask  curtains,  or  velvet  carpet  ? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  would  take  ad 
vantage  of  a  moment  of  conjugal  weakness,  to  extort 
money  or  exact  a  promise  ? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  "  has  the  head 
ache"  whenever  her  husband  wants  her  to  walk 
with  him,  but  willingly  wears  out  her  gaiter  boots 
promenading  with  his  gentlemen  friends  ? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  takes  a  journey 


MATRIMONIAL    ADVERTISEMENTS.  309 

for  pleasure,  leaving  her  husband  to  toil  in  a  close 
office,  and  "  have  an  eye,  when  at  home,  to  the 
servants  and  children  ?" 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  who  values  an  un* 
rumpled  collar  or  crinoline  more  than  a  conjugal  kiss  ? 

Has  she  a  call  to  be  a  wife,  to  whom  a  good  hus 
band's  society  is  not  the  greatest  of  earthly  blessings, 
and  a  house  full  of  rosy  children  its  best  furnishing, 
and  prettiest  adornment  ? 


MATRIMONIAL  ADVERTISEMENTS. 

THAT  prurient  young  men,  and  broken-down  old 
ones,  should  seek  amusement  in  matrimonial  adver 
tisements,  is  not  so  much  a  matter  of  surprise ;  but 
that  respectable  papers  should  lend  such  a  voice  in 
their  columns,  is,  I  confess,  astonishing.  I  do  not 
say  that  a  virtuous  woman  has  never  answered  such 
an  advertisement ;  but  I  do  say,  that  the  virtue  of  a 
woman  who  w^ould  do  so  is  not  invincible.  There 
is  no  necessity  for  an  attractive,  or,  to  use  a  hateful 
phrase,  a  "  marketable"  woman,  to  take  such  a  de 
grading  step  to  obtain  what,  alas !  under  legitimate 
circumstances,  often  proves,  when  secured,  but  a 
Dead  Sea  apple.  It  is  undesirable,  damaged,  and 
unsaleable  goods  that  are  oftenest  offered  at  auction. 
A  woman  must  first  have  ignored  the  sweetest  at 
tributes  of  womanhood,  have  overstepped  the  last 
barrier  of  self-respect,  who  would  parley  with  a 


310  FRESH    LEAVES. 

stranger  on  such  a  topic.  You  tell  me  that  marriage 
has  sometimes  been  the  result.  Granted  :  but  has  a 
woman  who  has  effected  it  in  this  way,  bettered  her 
condition,  how  uncongenial  soever  it  might  have 
been  ?  Few  husbands  (and  the  longer  I  observe, 
the  more  I  am  convinced  of  the  truth  of  what  I  am 
about  say,  and  I  make  no  exception  in  favor  of  edu 
cation  or  station)  have  the  magnanimity  to  use 
justly,  generously,  the  power  which  the  law  puts  in 
their  hands.  But  what  if  a  wife's  helplessness  be 
aggravated  by  the  reflection  that  she  has  abjectly 
solicited  her  wretched  fate  ?  How  many  men, 
think  you,  are  there,  who,  when  out  of  humor, 
would  hesitate  tauntingly  to  use  this  drawn  sword 
which  you  have  foolishly  placed  in  their  hands  ? 

Our  sex  has  need  of  all  the  barriers,  all  the  de 
fenses,  which  nature  has  given  us.  No — never  let 
woman  be  the  wooer,  save  as  the  flowers  woo,  with 
their  sweetness — save  as  the  stars  woo,  with  their 
brightness — save  as  the  summer  wind  woos — si 
lently  unfolding  the  rose's  heart. 


A  SABLE    SUBJECT. 

EVERY  day,  in  my  walks,  I  pass  a  large  bow  win 
dow  on  the  corner  of  two  streets,  in  which  is  dis 
played  the  agreeable  spectacle  of  big  and  little 
coffins  of  all  sorts  and  shapes,  piled  up  and  standing 
on  end.  This  is  in  bad  taste  enough ;  but  yester- 


A    SABLE    SUBJECT.  311 

day,  through  the  ostentatious  glass-windows  of  the 
shop,  I  saw  a  little  rosy  baby  crawling  over  and 
around  them,  while  the  elder  children  were  using 
them  for  play-houses  for  their  dolls !  Now  such  a 
sight  may  strike  other  people  agreeably,  or  they 
may  pass  it  every  day  with  entire  indifference ;  un 
fortunately  for  my  peace  of  mind,  I  can  do  neither 
one  nor  the  other,  for  by  a  sort  of  horrid  fascination 
my  eyes  are  attracted  to  that  detestable  window, 
and  familiarity  but  increases  my  disgust. 

Now  I  know  I  shall  need  a  coffin  some  day  or 
other ;  but  to-day  the  blue  sky  arches  over  my  head, 
the  fresh  wind  fans  my  temples,  and  every  blade  of 
grass,  and  new-blown  violet,  makes  me  childishly 
happy ;  now  what  right  has  that  ghoul  of  an  un 
dertaker  to  nudge  me  in  my  healthy  ribs  as  I  pass, 
check  my  springing  step,  send  the  blood  from  my 
cheek  back  to  my  heart,  change  my  singing  to  sigh 
ing,  and  turn  this  bright  glorious  earth  into  one  vast 
charnel-house  ?  In  the  name  of  cheerfulness,  I  in 
dict  'him,  and  his  co-fellows,  for  unmitigated  nui 
sances. 

And  while  I  am  upon  this  subject  I  would  like  to 
ask  why  the  New  York  sextons,  for  I  believe  it  is 
peculiar  to  them,  should  have  the  exclusive  privilege 
of  advertising  their  business  on  the  outer  church- 
walls,  any  more  than  the  silversmith  who  furnishes 
the  communion-plate  ;  or  the  upholsterer  who  makes 
the  pulpit  and  pew-cushions ;  or  the  bookseller  who 
furnishes  the  hymn-books ;  or  the  dry-goods  mer- 


312  FRESH    LEAVES. 

chant  who  sells  the  black  silk  to  make  the  clergy 
man's  robe  ?  It  strikes  me  that  it  is  a  monopoly, 
and  a  very  repulsive  one.  In  my  opinion,  this  whole 
funeral  business  needs  reforming.  Much  of  the 
shrinking  horror  with  which  death  is  invested  even 
to  good  Christians,  is  traceable  to  these  repulsive, 
early  associations,  of  which  they  can  not,  by  any 
exercise  of  faith,  rid  themselves  in  after  years.  These 
unnecessary,  ostentatious,  long-drawn-out  parapher 
nalia  of  woe ;  these  gloomy  sable  garments,  which 
all  should  unite  in  abolishing  j  these  horrible  pomp 
ous  funerals,  with  their  pompous  undertakers,  where 
people  who  scarce  ever  glanced  at  the  living  face 
congregate  to  sniffle  hypocritical  tears  over  the  dead 
one;  these  stereotyped  round-about  prayers  that 
mean  so  little,  and  which  the  mourner  never  hears ; 
this  public  counting  of  scalding  tears  by  careless 
gazers  at  the  grave-yard  or  the  tomb ;  it  is  all  hor 
rible — it  need  not  be — for  the  sake  of  childhood, 
often,  through  fear  of  death,  all  its  life-time  subject 
to  bondage,  it  ought  not  to  be.  Even  the  "  heathen," 
so  called,  have  the  advantage  of  us  in  the  cheerful 
ness  with  which  they  wisely  invest  a  transition, 
from  which  flesh  and  blood,  with  its  imperfect 
spiritualization,  instinctively  shrinks. 


NEW    YORK.  313 

NEW   YORK. 

"  THERE  is  no  night  there,"  though  spoken  of  a 
place  the  opposite  of  New  York,  is  nevertheless 
true  of  Gotham ;  for  by  the  time  the  ennuied  plea 
sure  seekers  have  yawned  out  the  evening  at  the 
theater  or  opera,  and  supped  at  Taylor's,  or  danced 
themselves  lame  at  some  private  ball,  a  more  hum 
ble  but  much  more  useful  portion  of  the  community 
are  rubbing  open  their  eyelids,  and  creeping  by  the 
waning  light  of  the  street  lamps,  and  the  gray  dawn, 
to  another  brave  day  of  ill-requited  toil ;  while  in 
many  an  attic,  by  the  glimmer  of  a  handful  of  lighted 
shavings,  tear-stained  faces  resume  the  coarse  gar 
ment  left  unfinished  the  night  before.  At  this  early 
hour,  too,  stunted,  prematurely-old  little  boys  may 
be  seen,  staggering  under  the  weight  of  heavy  shop 
window  shutters,  and  young  girls,  with  faded  eyes 
and  shawls,  crawl  to  their  prisoning  workshops; 
while  lean,  over-tasked  omnibus  horses,  commence 
anew  their  never-ceasing,  treadmill  rounds.  God 
help  them  all !  my  heart  is  with  the  oppressed,  be  it 
man  or  beast. 

The  poet  says  there  are  "  sermons  in  stones."  I 
endorse  it.  The  most  eloquent  sermons  I  ever  heard 
were  from  "  A.  Stone ;"  (but  that  is  a  theme  I  am 
not  going  to  dwell  upon  now.)  I  maintain  that 
there  are  sermons  in  horses. 

Crash — crash — crash  ! 

I  turned  my  head.     Directly  behind  me,  in  Broad- 


314  FRESH    LEAVES. 

way,  was  a  full-freighted  omnibus.  One  of  the 
horses  attached  had  kicked  out  both  his  hind  legs, 
snapped  the  whiffle-tree  to  the  winds,  and  planting 
his  hoofs  into  the  end  window,  under  the  driver's 
seat,  had  shivered  the  glass  in  countless  fragments, 
into  the  faces  of  the  astonished  passengers,  plunging 
and  rearing  with  the  most  '76-y  spirit.  Ladies 
screamed,  and  scrambled  with  what  haste  they 
might,  out  on  to  the  pavement ;  gentlemen  dropped 
their  morning  papers,  and  uttering  angry  impreca 
tions  as  they  brushed  the  glass  splinters  from  their 
broadcloth,  followed  them ;  while  the  driver  cursed 
and  lashed  in  vain  at  the  infuriated  hoofs,  which 
abated  not  a  jot  of  their  fury  at  all  his  cursing  and 
lashing. 

" Vicious  beast!"  exclaimed  one  bystander. 
"  Ought  to  be  shot  instanter  /"  said  a  second.  "I'd 
like  to  lash  his  hide  raw !"  exclaimed  a  third  Nero. 

Ah !  my  good  friends,  thought  I,  as  I  went  laugh 
ing  on  my  way,  not  so  fast  with  your  anathemas. 
The  cause  of  that  apparently  malicious  and  un 
provoked  attack,  dates  a  long  way  back.  Count,  if 
you  please,  the  undeserved  lashings,  the  goadings, 
and  spurings,  that  noble  creature  has  borne,  while 
doing  a  horse's  best  to  please !  Think  of  the  scanty 
feed,  the  miserable  stable,  the  badly-fiting,  irritating 
harness  j  the  slippery  pavements,  where  he  has  so 
often  been  whipped  for  stumbling ;  the  melting  dog- 
days  with  their  stinging  bottle-flies  and  burning  sun- 
rays,  when  he  has  plodded  wearily  up  and  down 


AIRY    COSTUMES.  315 

those  interminable  avenues,  sweating  and  panting 
under  the  yoke  of  cruel  task-masters. 

'Tisthe  last  ounce  which  breaks  the  camel's  back; 
'tis  the  last  atom  which  balances  the  undulating 
scales.  Why  should  that  noble  horse  bear  all  this  ? 
He  of  the  flashing  eye,  arching  neck,  and  dilating 
nostril  ?  He  of  the  horny  hoof  and  sinewy  limb  ? 
He  ! — good  for  a  score  of  his  oppressors,  if  he  would 
only  think  so! — Up  go  his  hoofs!  As  a  Bunker 
Hill  descendant,  I  can  not  call  that  horse — a  jack- 


AIHY    COSTUMES. 

ARE  the  New  York  children 'to  be  frozen  this  win 
ter,  I  want  to  know  ?  Are  their  legs  to  be  bared 
from  the  knee  to  the  tip  of  their  little  white  socks, 
just  above  the  ankle,  to  please  some  foolish  mother, 
who  would  rather  her  child  were  a  martyr  to  neu 
ralgia  and  rheumatism,  its  natural  life,  than  to  be 
out  of  fashion  ?  Are  sneezing  babes  to  face  the 
winter  wind  in  embroidered  muslin  caps,  lined  with 
silk,  the  costly  lace  borders  of  which  are  supposed 
to  atone  for  the  premature  loss  of  their  eye-sight  ? 
Are  little  girls  to  shiver  in  cambric  pantalettes,  and 
skirts  lifted  high  in  the  air  by  infantile  hoops  ?  Are 
their  mothers  to  tiptoe  through  the  all-abounding 
"  slosh"  of  New  York  streets,  in  paper-soled  gaiters, 
and  rose-colored  silk  stockings  ?  And  yet  one  scarce- 


316  FRESH    LEAVES. 

ly  cares  about  the  latter,  because  the  sooner  such 
"  mothers  of  families"  tiptoe  themselves  into  their 
graves,  the  better  for  coming  generations;  but  for 
the  children,  one  can  but  sigh,  and  shiver  too ;  and 
inquire,  as  did  an  old-fashioned  physician  of  a  little 
undressed  victim,  "If  cloth  was  so  dear  that  her 
mother  could  not  afford  to  cover  her  knees  ?"  It  is 
a  comfort  to  look  at  the  men,  who,  whatever  follies 
they  may  be  guilty  of  (and  no  human  arithmetic 
can  compute  them),  have  yet  sense  enough  to  wear 
thick-soled  boots,  and  wadded  wrappers  in  the 
proper  season.  One  looks  at  their  comfortable  gar 
ments  and  heaves  a  sigh  for  breeze  and  mud- 
defying  pantaloondom ;  for  with  the  most  sensible 
arrangements  for  skirts,  they  are  an  unabated  and 
intolerable  nuisance  in  walking ;  and  yet  those  hor 
rid  Bloomers !  those  neutral,  yet  "  strong-minded" 
Miss  Nancys  !  with  their  baggy  stuff-trowsers,  flap- 
ing  fly-aways,  and  cork-screw  stringlets.  I  could 
get  up  a  costume !  but  alas !  the  brass  necessary  to 
wear  it!  I  see  now,  with  my  mind's  eye,  the 
iaunty  little  cap,  the  well-fitting,  graceful  pants,  the 
half-jacket,  half-blouse — the  snow-white  collar,  and 
pretty  fancy  neck-tie — the  ravishing  boot — the  nice 
ly  fitting  wrist-band,  with  its  gold  sleeve-buttons; 
but  why  awake  the  jealousy  of  the  other  "  sect  ?'* 
Why  drive  the  tailors  to  commit  suicide  in  the  midst 
of  their  well-stocked  warehouses  ?  Why  send  little 
boys  grinning  round  corners  ?  Why  make  the  par 
son  forget  his  prayers,  and  the  lawyer  his  clients  ? 


A   PEEP   AT   THE    OPERA.  317 

Why  drive  distracted  the  feminine  owners  of  big 
feet  and  thick  ankles  ?  Why  force  women  to  mend 
the  holes  in  the  heels  of  their  stockings?  Why 
leave  to  scavengers  the  pleasant  task  of  mopping  up 
dirty  streets  and  sidewalks  ?  Why  drive  "  M.  Ds." 
to  take  down  their  signs,  and  take  up  "  de  shovel 
and  de  hoe  ?"  I  '11  be  magnanimous.  I  won't  do  it 


A    PEEP    AT    THE    OPERA. 

I  WAS  at  the  opera  last  night.  It  was  all  gas- 
glare,  gilding  and  girls.  Oh,  the  unspeakably  tire 
some  fix-up-ativeness  of  New  York  women !  The 
elaborate  hair-twistings  and  braidings  ;  the  studied 
display  of  bracelets  and  rings;  the  rolling-up  of 
eyes,  and  casting-down  of  eye-lashes ;  the  simper- 
ings  and  smirkings;  the  gettings-up  and  sittings- 
down,  ere  the  fortunate  attitude  is  fixed  upon ;  the 
line  at  which  a  shawl  must  be  dropped  to  show  a 
bust ;  the  ermine  sheets,  worn  without  reference  to 
lily  or  leopard  complexions;  the  fat  damsels  who 
affect  Madonna-ism ;  the  lean  women,  whaleboned 
to  "  Peter  Schemel"-ism ;  the  tinsel-y  head-dresses  ; 
the  gaudy  opera-cloaks  ;  the  pray-do-look-at-me 
air;  the  utter  absence  of  simplicity,  and  of  that 
beautiful  self-forge  tfulness  which  is  the  greatest 
charm  of  woman.  It  is  a  relief  to  see  some  honest 
country  people  stray  in,  simply  cloaked  and  bon- 


318  FRESH    LEAVES. 

neted  (and  old-fashioned  and  homely  at  that,)  who, 
ignorant  of  the  mighty  difference  between  "  point" 
and  cotton-lace,  ermine  and  cat-skin,  drop  into  a 
seat,  ignore  their  artificial  neighbors,  and  lose  them 
selves  in  the  illusions  of  the  stage. 

Mark  GRISI  !  What  perfection  of  grace  in  atti 
tude,  what  simplicity  and  appropriateness  in  cos 
tume,  what  a  regal  head,  what  massive  white  should 
ers,  what  a  queenly  tread.  How  could  such  an 
imperial  creature  ever  love  that  effeminate  little 
pocket-edition — MARIO  ?  A  pretty  man  !  with  his 
silky  locks  parted  in  the  middle,  and  a  little  dot  of 
an  imperial  under  his  little  red  lip !  Antidote  me  his 
effeminacy,  oh  memory,  with  the  recollection  of 
Daniel  Webster's  unfathomable  eyes  and  Lucifer- 
ish  frown; — something  grand — something  noble — 
something  homely  if  you  like,  but  for  Heaven's 
sake,  something  manly. 


HAED   TIMES. 

"  Is  me  velvet  j-a-c-k-e-t  ready  to  try  on  ?"  drawl 
ed  a  lady,  dropping  her  elegant  cashmere  from  one 
shoulder,  as  she  sauntered  into  Mme. 's  dress 
making  saloon. 

"  It  is  not,"  replied  the  young  girl  in  waiting. 

"  Vdy  extraordinary — ve'y  surprising  ;  madame 
promised  it,  without  fail,  this  morning." 


HARD    TIMES.  319 

"Madame  has  been  unexpectedly  called  out," 
replied  the  girl,  coolly  rehearsing  the  stereotyped 
fib. 

"  Vejy  perplexing,"  muttered  the  lady ;  "  vdy  ri 
diculous — pray,  when  witt  she  see  me  ?"  she  asked 
(unwilling  to  trust  the  draping  of  her  aristocratic 
limbs  to  less  practiced  hands). 

"This  afternoon  at  five,"  answered  the  girl,  fib 
bing  a  second  time,  knowing  very  well  that  it  was 
part  of  madame's  tactics  to  keep  her  saloon  daily 
filled  with  just  such  anxious  expectants,  up  to  the 
last  endurable  point  of  procrastination.  And  there 
they  sat,  poor  imbeciles !  grouped  about  the  room, 
pulling  over  the  last  fashion  prints,  overhauling  gayly- 
colored  paper  dress  patterns,  discussing  modes,  robes, 
basques,  and  trimmings,  with  the  most  ludicrously- 
grave  earnestness,  ordering  ruinous  quantities  of 
point  lace  and  velvet,  with  the  most  reckless  aban 
don,  and  vying  which  should  make  themselves  look 
most  hideously-Babylonish  and  rainbow-like ;  while 
their  husbands  and  fathers,  in  another  part  of  the 
city,  were  hurrying  from  banks  to  counting-houses, 
sweating  and  fretting  over  "  protested  notes,"  care, 
meanwhile,  anticipating  old  Time  in  seaming  their 
brows,  and  plowing  their  cheeks  with  wrinkles. 

In  an  unfashionable,  obscure  part  of  the  city,  in 
the  basement  of  a  small  two-story  house,  sat  a  wo 
man  of  twenty-seven  years,  the  mother  of  ten  chil 
dren,  who  were  swarming  about  her  like  a  hive  of 


820  FRESH    LEAVES. 

bees — fat,  clean,  rosy,  noisy,  merry,  and  happy. 
They  had  little  space  for  their  gymnastics,  it  is  true, 
the  little  room  dignified  as  "  the  parlor"  being  only 
twelve  feet  square ;  back  of  this  was  a  dark  bed 
room,  leading  to  a  small  kitchen,  filled  with  the  usual 
variety  of  culinary  utensils.  The  pot  of  potatoes  for 
their  simple  dinner,  was  boiling  over  the  kitchen 
fire ;  the  happy  mother  of  this  little  family  was  put 
ting  the  last  touches  to  a  silk  dress  for  a  lady  in  the 
neighborhood ;  and  the  baby  was  sleeping  as  sweet 
ly,  as  though  its  brothers  and  sisters  were  not  using 
their  lungs  and  limbs,  as  God  intended  children's 
lungs  and  limbs  should  be  used.  On  a  small  table 
in  the  corner  lay  a  pile  of  medical  books — for  the 
father  of  these  ten  children  was  absent  at  a  medical 
lecture,  preparatory  to  a  physician's  practice. 

"  Poor  George  I"  said  the  prolific  young  mother, 
with  a  laugh — "  all  these  big  books  yet  to  be  cram 
med  into  his  curly  head  j  "  never  mind — I  had  rather 
do  all  my  own  work,  take  in  dress-making,  and  sup 
port  the  family  two  years  longer,  than  that  he  should 
be  disappointed  in  his  favorite  wish  of  becoming  a 
doctor.  There  he  comes!"  said  she,  dropping  her 
needle,  as  a  dark-eyed,  intelligent-looking,  mercurial 
little  fellow  bounced  into  the  room — snatched  the 
baby  from  the  cradle — -jumped  pell-mell  into  the 
laughing  group  of  little  boys  and  girls,  and  kissed 
his  wife's  forehead,  as  he  helped  her  to  draw  out 
the  dinner-table. 

Ah,  thought  I,  as  I  contrasted  this  with  the  scene 


COUNTER    IRRITATION.  821 

at  Madame  B 's  saloon;  better  is  a  dinner  of  po 
tatoes  where  love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox  and  a  pro 
tested  note  therewith ! 


COUNTER    IRRITATION. 

/*  THAT  is  all  clerks  are  fit  for,"  said  a  heartless 
woman,  who  had  been  diverting  herself  with  turn 
ing  a  store  fall  of  goods  topsy-turvy. 

'is  it? 

Is  the  situation  of  a  clerk  always  a  congenial 
one  ?  Have  those  who  occupy  it  never  a  soul 
above  ribbons  and  laces?  Are  they  as  frivolous, 
and  mindless  as  many  of  the  ladies  upon  whom  they 
are  often  obliged  to  wait?  Is  their  future  bounded 
by  the  counter  to  which  necessity  has  chained  them  ? 

Not  at  all. 

Look  into  our  library  reading-rooms  of  an  even 
ing.  See  them  joining  the  French,  Spanish,  Ger 
man,  and  Italian  classes.  See  them,  unconscious  of 
the  flight  of  time,  devouring  with  avidity  works  of 
history,  biography,  and  books  of  travel.  See  the 
eye  sparkle,  and  the  brow  flush,  as  they  read  how  a 
Greeley  shut  his  teeth  on  discouragement,  and  hewed 
out  with  his  unaided  arm  a  path  to  honor  and  use 
fulness.  Ah !  has  the  clerk  no  noble,  hopes  or  aspi 
rations  for  the  future,  which  the  grinding,  treadmill 
round  of  his  daily  toil  can  neither  smother  nor  crush 


322  FRESH    LEAVES. 

out  ?  Is  there  no  far-off  home  from  which  he  is  an 
unwilling  exile  ?  No  mother,  no  sister,  whom  he 
must  make  proud  of  son  and  brother  ?  IN  o  bright- 
eyed,  winsome  young  girl,  whose  image  enshrined 
in  his  heart  is  at  once  a  talisman  against  evil,  and  a 
spur  to  unremitting  exertion?  the  hope  of  whose 
love  sweetens  and  dignifies  his  unpretending  labor, 
nerves  him  to  bear  uncomplainingly,  unresentfully, 
the  overbearing  and  undeserved  rebuke  of  arrogant 
assumption  ? 

You  shake  your  head,  and  cite  sad  instances  to 
the  contrary.  You  tell  me  of  dishonest,  dissolute, 
improvident  clerks,  lost  to  every  just,  generous,  and 
noble  feeling;  who  look  not  beyond  the  present 
hour  either  for  soul  or  body. 

True. 

But  what  if,  when  they  entered  upon  their  clerk 
ship  they  stood  alone  in  the  workl,  uncared  for, 
irresponsible,  held  in  check  by  no  saving  home 
influences,  adrift  upon  the  great  human  life  tide? 
What  if  their  employers  looked  upon  them  merely 
as  tools  and  machines,  not  as  human  beings  ?  What 
if  they  ground  them  down  to  the  lowest  possible 
rate  of  compensation.  What  if  never  by  look,  act, 
word,  or  tone,  they  manifested  a  kindly  parental  in 
terest  in  their  future,  cared  not  what  company  they 
kept,  or  what  influences  surrounded  them  in  their 
leisure  hours  ?  What  if  these  young  men  returned 
at  night,  after  their  day's  meagerly  rewarded  toil,  to 
a  small,  dreary,  desolate,  comfortless,  lodging  room, 


COUNTER   IRRITATION.  323 

where  there  was  nothing  to  cheer  the  eye  or  rest 
the  heart?  What  if  the  syren  voice  of  sin  softly 
whispered  those  youthful,  restless,  craving  hearts 
away? 

What  then  ? 

Oh !  if  employers  sometimes  thought  of  this ! 
Sometimes  stopped  the  Juggernaut  wheels  of  Mam 
mon  to  look  at  the  victims  which  lay  crushed  be 
neath,  for  want  of  a  little  human  love,  and  care,  and 
sympathy !  Sometimes  thought,  while  looking  with 
fond  pride  upon  their  own  young  sons,  that  fortune's 
wheel,  in  some  of  its  thousand  revolutions,  might 
whirl  them  through  the  same  fiery  ordeal,  and  that 
their  now  unclouded  sun  might  go  down  while  it 
was  yet  day. 

You,  who  are  employers,  think  of  it ! 

Youth  hungers  for  appreciation  —  sympathy — 
must  have  it — ought  to  have  it — will  have  it.  Oh, 
give  it  an  occasional  thought  whether  the  source 
from  whence  it  is  obtained  be  good  or  evil,  pure  or 
impure  !  Speak  kindly  to  them. 

Oh,  the  saving  power  there  is  in  feeling  that  there 
is  one  human  being  who  cares  whether  we  stand  or 
fall! 


324  FRESH    LEAVES. 

SUNDAY    IN    GOTHAM. 

'Tis  Sabbath  morning  in  New  York.  You  are 
wakened  by  children's  voices,  pitched  in  every  variety 
of  key,  vying  which  shall  shout  the  loudest :  "  Her'ld 
— Z)tspateh — Sun'y  Times — Sunny  Atlas" — paren- 
thetized  by  an  occasional  street-fight  between  the 
sturdy  little  merchants,  when  one  encroaches  on  the 
other's  "beat."  You  have  scarce  recovered  from 
their  ear-splitting  chorus,  before  the  air  is  rent  by  a 
sound  like  ten  thousand  Indian  war-whoops,  and  an 
engine  thunders  by,  joined  by  every  little  ragamuffin 
whose  legs  are  old  enough  to  follow.  Close  upon 
the  heels  of  this  comes  the  milk-man,  who  sits  philo 
sophically  on  his  cart,  and  glancing  up  at  the  win 
dows,  utters  a  succession  of  sounds,  the  like  of  which 
never  was  heard  in  heaven  above,  or  earth  beneath, 
or  in  the  waters  under  the  earth. 

Now,  saloons  and  cigar  stores  open  half  a  shutter 
each,  and  apple-stalls  multiply  at  street  corners. 
Then  the  bells  ring  for  church,  and,  with  head  and 
heart  distracted,  you  obey  the  summons.  On  your 
way  you  pass  troops  of  people  bound  to  Hoboken, 
Jersey,  Williamsburg — anywhere,  but  to  the  house 
of  Grod.  Groups  of  idle  young  men,  with  their  best 
beavers  cocked  over  one  eye,  stand  smoking  and 
swearing  at  the  street  corners;  and  now  Yankee 
Doodle  strikes  on  your  ear,  for  the  dead  is  left  to 
his  dreamless  sleep,  and  the  world  jogs  on  to  a  mer 
rier  measure. 


SUNDAY    IN    GOTHAM.  325 

You  enter  the  church  porch.  The  portly  sexton, 
with  his  thumbs  in  the  arm-holes  of  his  vest,  meets 
you  at  the  door.  He  glances  at  you :  your  hat  and 
coat  are  new,  so  he  graciously  escorts  you  to  an  el 
igible  seat  in  the  broad  aisle.  Close  behind  you  fol 
lows  a  poor,  meek,  plainly-clad  seamstress,  reprieved 
from  her  treadmill  round,  to  think  one  day  in  seven 
of  the  Immortal.  The  sexton  is  struck  with  a  sud 
den  blindness.  She  stands  one  embarrassed  mo 
ment,  then,  as  the  truth  dawns  upon  her,  retraces 
her  steps,  and,  with  a  crimson  blush,  recrosses  the 
threshold,  which  she  had  profaned  with  her  plebeian 
foot.  « 

Now  the  worshipers  one  after  another  glide  in ; 
silks  rustle  ;  plumes  wave  ;  satins  glisten ;  diamonds 
glitter;  arid  scores  of  forty-dollar  handkerchiefs 
shake  out  their  perfumed  odors. 

What  an  absurdity  to  preach  the  gospel  of  the 
lowly  Nazarite  to  such  a  set !  The  clergyman  knows 
better  than  to  do  so.  He  values  his  fat  salary  and 
his  handsome  parsonage  too  highly.  So  with  a  vel- 
vet-y  tread  he  walks  round  the  ten  commandments, 
places  the  downiest  of  pillows  under  the  dying  prof 
ligate's  head,  and  ushers  him  with  seraphic  hymning 
into  an  upper-ten  heaven. 

From  this  disgusting  farce  let  me  take  you  to  the 
lecture-room  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Tyng.  It  is  the  first 
Sunday  afternoon  of  the  month  (when  he  regularly 
meets  the  children  of  his  parish,  who  are  mostly 
members  of  his  Sabbath-school).  It  would  seem  an 


320  FRESH    LEAVES. 

easy  thing  to  address  a  company  of  children.  Let 
him  who  thinks  so,  try  it!  Let  him  be  familiar 
without  being  flat ;  let  him  be  instructive,  and  at 
the  same  time  entertaining ;  let  him  fix  roving  eyes ; 
let  him  nail  skittish  ears ;  let  him  stop  just  at  the 
moment  when  a  child's  mental  appetite  has  lost  its 
digestive  power.  All  this  requires  a — Dr.  Tyng. 

See — group  after  group  of  bright  faces  gather 
around  him,  and  take  their  seats ;  not  one  is  afraid 
of  "  the  minister."  He  has  a  smile  of  love  and  a 
word  of  kindness  for  all.  He  has  closed  his  church 
purposely  to  meet  them,  and  given  the  grown-folks 
to  understand,  that  the  soul  of  a  child  is  as  priceless 
as  an  adult's,  and  that  he  has  a  message  from  God 
for  each  little  one,  as  well  as  for  father  and  mother 
and  uncle  John.  He  asks  some  question  aloud. 
Instantly  a  score  of  little  voices  hasten  to  reply,  as 
fearlessly  as  if  they  were  by  their  own  fire-side.  Ho 
wishes  to  fix  some  important  idea  in  their  mind  :  he 
illustrates  it  by  an  anecdote,  which  straightway  dis 
closes  rows  of  little  pearly  teeth  about  him.  He 
holds  up  no  reproving  finger  when  some  lawless, 
gleeful  little  two-year-older  rings  out  a  laugh  musical 
as  a  robin's  carol.  He  calls  on  "  John,"  and  "  Susy," 
and  "  Fanny,"  and  "  Mary,"  with  the  most  parental 
familiarity  and  freedom.  He  asks  their  opinion  on 
some  point  (children  like  that  I),  he  repeats  little 
things  they  have  said  to  him  (their  minister  has  time 
to  remember  what  even  a  little  child  saysl)  He 
takes  his  hymn-book  and  reads  a  few  sweet,  simple 


ANNIVERSARY   TIME.  327 

verses ;  he  pitches  the  tune  himself,  and,  at  a  wave 
of  his  hand,  the  bright-eyed  cherubs  join  him. 

Look  around.  There  is  a  little  Fifth  Avenue  pet, 
glossy  haired,  velvet  skinned — her  dainty  limbs  clad 
in  silk  and  velvet.  Close  by  her  side,  sits  a  stur 
dy,  freckled,  red-fisted  little  Erin-ite,  scantily  clad 
enough  for  November,  but  as  happy,  and  as  uncon 
scious  of  the  deficiency  as  his  tiny  elbow  neighbor ; 
on  the  same  seat  is  a  little  African,  whose  shiny 
eye-balls  and  glittering  teeth,  say  as  plainly  as  if  he 
gave  utterance  to  it,  we  are  all  equal,  all  luelcome 
here. 

Oh,  this  is  Christianity — this  is  the  Sabbath — this 
is  millennial.  Look  around  that  room,  listen  to  those 
voices,  if  you  can,  without  a  tear  in  your  eye,  a 
prayer  in  your  heart,  and  Christ's  sweet  words  upon 
your  lips :  " Feed  my  Lambs" 


ANNIVERSARY    TIME. 

MR.      GOUGH      AT      THE      OPERA     HOTfSE. 

FUNNY,  isn't  it?  Country  ministers,  with  their 
wives  and  daughters,  in  the  unhallowed  precincts  of 
an  Opera  House  !  I  trust  they  crossed  themselves 
on  the  threshold,  by  way  of  exorcising  Beelzebub. 
Observe  their  furtive  glances  at  the  naked  little  dim- 
plednesses  perched  upon  yonder  wooden  pillars. 
How  legibly  is — Saints  and  angels  !  where  are  those 


328  FRESH    LEAVES. 

children's  trowsers  ?  written  upon  the  elongated  cor 
ners  of  their  evangelical  mouths.  R-a-t-h-e-r  differ 
ent,  I  confess,  from  the  Snagtown  "  meetin'-house," 
with  its  slam-down  seats,  its  swallow-nested  roof, 
and  its  shirt-sleeved  chorister ;  but,  my  strait-laced 
friends,  if  you  strain  at  a  harmless  marble  Cupid, 
how  could  you  swallow  an  electric  flesh-and-blood 
ballet-dancer?  Such  as  we  are  wont  to  see  in 
this  house  ?  I  have  tried  to  educate  myself  up 
to  it,  but  may  I  be  pinched  this  minute  if  I  do  not 
catch  myself  diligently  perusing  the  play-bill,  when 
ever  they  execute  one  of  their  astounding  rotary 
pas.  I  can't  stand  it ;  and  yet  my  friends,  at  the 
risk  of  being  excommunicated,  allow  me  to  say,  that 
I  would  rather  stand  a  ballet-dancer's  chance  of  get 
ting  to  heaven,  than  that  of  many  a  vinegar-visaged 
saint  of  high  repute  in  your  churches. 

But  this  is  a  digression.  Just  see  those  women 
seating  themselves  on  the  stage.  Saucy  as  I  am,  I 
could  not  do  that ;  nor,  if  I  did,  would  I  put  my 
feet  upon  the  rounds  of  a  chair  in  front  of  me — and 
the  audience.  How  patriarchal  Solon  Robinson 
looks,  with  his  clear,  calm  face,  and  his  long,  snow- 
white  beard !  He  is  quite  a  picture.  What  a  pity 
he  ever  burned  his  fingers  with  "  Hot  Corn."  But 
let  him  throw  the  first  stone  who  has  never  by  one 
well-meant,  but  mistaken  act  of  his  life,  called  forth 
the  regretful  "  what  a  pity  1"  The  river  which 
never  overflows  its  banks  may  never  devastate,  nor 
— does  it  ever  freshen  the  distant  and  arid  Sahara. 


ANNIVERSARY    TIME.  329 

Many  a  poor  man  has  blessed,  and  will  bless,  the 
name  of  Solon  Robinson  ;  and  many  a  hard- toiling 
woman,  too,  whom  he  has  instructed  how  to  pro 
cure  the  most  nutriment  for  her  starving  children 
from  an  old  bone  or  a  couple  of  onions.  Let  those 
who  make  wry  mouths  at  "  Hot  Corn,"  taste  his 
'•'  poor  man's  soup,"  and  do  justice  to  the  active  brain 
and  philanthropic  heart  of  its  originator. 

I  used  to  think  the  a]STew  York  Tribune,"  of  which 
Solon  is  agricultural  editor,  a  great  institution,  until 
I  discovered  two  things :  first,  the  number  of  able, 
talented,  practical  men  employed  in  its  getting  up  ; 
secondly,  that  a  buffs  head  is  kept  constantly  seeth 
ing  in  the  machine  boiler  to  impart  a  wholesome  fe 
rocity  to  its  paragraphs ! 

Hush  !  here  comes  the  speaker  of  the  evening — • 
John  B.  Grough,  supported  by  Dr.  Tyng  (who  be 
lieves  in  preaching  to  dear  little  children,  as  well  as 
to  their  fathers  and  mothers).  John  says,  "  Ladies 
and  gentlemen"  (not — Gentlemen  and  ladies,  as  do 
some  ungallant  orators).  "Ladies  and  gentlemen, 
when  the  admission  tickets  are  twenty-five  cents  I 
feel  doubtful  of  giving  you  your  money's  worth ; 
judge  then  how  a  fifty  cent  ticket  embarrasses  me." 
A  very  politic  preface,  John ;  but  ere  you  had  spoken 
five  consecutive  sentences,  I  knew  it  was  mock- 
modesty.  You  know  very  well  that  no  man  un 
derstands  better  how  to  sway  a  crowd ;  you  know 
that  many  an  audience,  who  yawn  through  ad 
dresses  that  are  squared,  rounded,  and  plumb-ed  by 


330  FRESH    LEAVES. 

nicest  rules  of  rhetoric,  will  sit  spell-bound  uncon 
scious  hours,  and  laugh  and  cry  at  your  magnetic 
will.  John,  you  are  a  good  and  a  great  institution, 
and  right  glad  am  I  that  the  noble  cause  in  which 
your  eloquence  is  enlisted,  has  so  pleasing  and  in 
domitable  a  defender. 

But  John — it  is  not  all  in  you.  Double-edged  is 
the  sword  wielded  in  a  just  cause ;  and  not  a  man, 
woman,  or  child  has  listened  to  your  burning  words 
to-night  who  did  not  know  and  feel  that  you  spoke 
G-od's  truth. 

Success  to  the  Temperance  cause,  and  all  its  apos 
tles,  both  great  and  small ;  and  above  all,  never  let 
woman's  lip  baptize  the  bowl,  which,  for  aught  she 
can  tell,  may  sepulcher  her  dearest  hopes  this  side 
heaven. 


WAYSIDE    WORDS. 

I  WONDER  is  there  a  country  on  the  face  of  the 
earth,  where  the  Almighty  is  oftener  called  upon  to 
send  to  perdition  the  souls  of  those  who  offend  its 
inhabitants  ?  Everywhere  that  horrid  imprecation, 
so  familiar  that  it  is  unnecessary  to  shock  you  by 
writing  it,  meets  the  pained  ear.  I  say  pained,  be 
cause  I,  for  one,  can  not  abhor  it  less  on  account  of 
its  frequency,  or  consider  it  less  disgusting,  because 
it  filters  through  aristocratic  lips.  Everywhere  it 
pursues  me  ;  in  crowded  streets,  on  ferry  boats,  in 


WAYSIDE    WOKDS.  O:5I 

omnibusses,  and,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  in  ladies'  par 
lors,  which  should  afford  a  refuge  from  this  disgust 
ing  habit. 

From  old  men — whose  toothless  lips  mumble  it 
almost  inarticulately ;  from  those  who  would  resent 
to  the  death  any  question  of  their  claim  to  the  title 
of  gentlemen ;  from  young  men,  glorious  else,  in  the 
strength  and  vigor  of  youth;  and  sadder  still — 
from  little  children,  who  have  caught  the  trick,  and 
bandy  curses  at  their  sports.  An  oath  from  a 
child? s  lips  I  One  would  as  soon  expect  a  thunder 
bolt  from  out  the  heart  of  a  rose.  And  yet,  there 
are  those  who  deliberately  teach  little  children  to 
swear,  and  think  it  sport,  when  the  rosy  lips,  with 
childish  grace,  lisp  the  demoniac  lesson. 

An  oath  from  a  woman's  lips !  With  shuddering 
horror  we  shrink  away,  and  ask,  what  bitter  cup  of 
wrong,  suffering,  and  despair,  man  has  doomed  her 
to  drink  to  the  dregs,  ere  she  could  so  belie  her 
beautiful  womanhood. 

One  lovely  moonlight  night,  I  was  returning  late 
from  the  opera,  with  a  gentleman  friend,  the  de 
licious  tones  I  had  heard  still  floating  through  my 
charmed  brain.  Suddenly  from  out  a  dark  angle  in 
a  building  we  passed,  issued  a  woman ;  old,  not  in 
years,  but  in  misery,  for  her  long,  brown  hair  cur 
tained  a  face  whose  beauty  had  been  its  owner's 
direst  curse.  To  my  dying  day  I  shall  never  forget 
the  horrid  oaths  of  that  wretched  woman  as  she 
faced  the  moonlight  and  me.  Perhaps  I  had  evoked 


332  FRESH    LEAVES. 

some  vision  of  happier  days,  when  she,  too,  had  a 
protecting  arm  to  lean  upon  j  sure  I  am,  could  she 
have  read  my  heart,  she  would  not  have  cursed  me. 
But  oh,  the  wide  gulf  between  what  she  must  have 
been  and  what  she  was !  Oh,  the  dreadful  reckon 
ing  to  be  required  at  the  hands  of  him  who  de 
faced  this  temple  of  the  living  God,  and  left  it  a 
shapeless,  blackened  ruin ! 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE. 

WHO  has  not  read  "  Jane  Eyre  ?"  and  who  has 
not  longed  to  know  the  personal  history  of  its  gifted 
author  ?  At  last  we  have  it  Poor  Charlotte  Bronte ! 
So  have  I  seen  a  little  bird  trying  bravely  with  out 
spread  wings  to  soar,  and  as  often  beaten  back  by  the 
gathering  storm-cloud — not  discouraged — biding  its 
time  for  another  trial — singing  feebly  its  quivering 
notes  as  if  to  keep  up  its  courage — growing  bolder  in 
each  essay  till  the  eye  ached  in  watching  its  tri 
umphant  progress — up — up — into  the  clear  blue  of 
heaven. 

Noble  Charlotte  Bronte!  worthy  to  receive  the 
baptism  of  fire  which  is  sent  to  purify  earth's  gifted. 
I  see  her  on  the  gloomy  moors  of  Haworth,  in  the 
damp  parsonage-house — skirted  by  the  grave-yard, 
sickening  with  its  unwholesome  exhalations,  crush 
ing  down,  at  the  stern  bidding  of  duty,  her  gloomy 
thoughts  and  aspirations ;  tending  patiently  the  irri- 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE.  333 

table  sick,  performing  cheerfully  the  most  menial 
household  offices  ;  the  days  "  passing  in  a  slow  and 
dead  march  ;"  cheered  by  no  mother's  loving  smile, 
or  rewarding  kiss ;  waiting  patiently  upon  the  hard, 
selfish,  unsympathizing  father,  who  saw,  one  by  one, 
his  gifted  daughters  sink  into  untimely  graves,  for 
want  of  the  love,  and  sympathy,  and  companionship 
for  which  their  yearning  hearts  were  aching. 

I  see  these  sisters  at  night,  released  from  toil, 
when  their  father  had  retired  to  "rest,  denied  the 
cheerful  candle-light,  pacing  up  and  down,  in  utter 
darkness,  the  dreary  little  sitting-room,  talking  of 
the  vacant  past  and  present,  and  trying  vainly  to 
pierce  the  impenetrable  future  for  one  glimmering 
ray  of  hope ;  and  as  years  passed  on,  and  vision  af 
ter  vision  faded  away — alas  !  with  those  who  wovo 
them — I  see  Charlotte,  the  last  survivor  of  that  little 
group,  pacing  alone  that  desolate  sitting-room ; 
while  the  winds  that  swept  over  the  bleak  moor, 
and  through  the  church-yard,  and  howled  about  the 
windows,  seemed  to  the  excited  imagination  of  the 
lonely,  feeble  watcher,  like  the  voices  of  her  sisters 
shrieking  to  be  again  enfolded  in  her  warm,  sisterly 
embrace.  Alone — all  alone  ! — no  shoulder  to  weep 
upon — no  loving  sister's  hand  to  creep  about  her 
waist — the  voices  of  her  soul  crying  eternally,  un 
ceasingly,  vainly,  Grive,  give — and  he  who  gave  her 
life,  sleeping,  eating,  drinking,  as  stoically  as  if  ten 
thousand  deaths  were  not  compressed,  to  that  feeble 
girl,  into  each  agonized  moment. 


334  FRESH    LEAVES. 

One  smiles  now,  when  the  praise  of  "  Jane  Eyre" 
is  on  every  tongue,  at  the  weary  way  the  author's 
thumbed  manuscript  traveled  from  publisher  to  pub 
lisher,  seeking  a  resting-place,  and  finding  none: 
and  when  at  length  it  did  appear  in  book  form — the 
caution  of  the  sapient  book-dissecting  "  London. 
Athenaeum"  containing  only  "  very  qualified  admis 
sions  of  the  power  of  the  author" — also  of  tl  The  Lit 
erary  G-azette,"  which  "  considered  it  unsafe  to  pro 
nounce  upon  an  unknown  author ;"  also  at  "  The 
Daily  News,"  which  "  did  not  review  novels" — but 
found  time  soon  afterward  to  notice  others.  Mis 
taken  gentlemen !  you  were  yet,  like  some  others  of 
your  class,  to  take  off  your  publishing  and  editorial 
hats  to  the  little  woman  who  was  destined  to  a 
world-wide  fame,  but — and  if  ye  have  manly  hearts 
they  must  have  ached  ere  now  to  think  of  it — not 
until  the  bitter  cup  of  privation  and  sorrow  had  been 
so  nearly  drained  to  the  dregs  by  those  quivering 
lips,  that  the  laurel  wreath,  so  bravely,  hardly  won, 
was  twined  with  the  cypress  vine. 

Literary  fame  !  alas  —  what  is  it  to  a  loving 
woman's  heart,  save  that  it  lifts  her  out  of  the  miry 
pit  of  poverty  and  toil  ?  To  have  one's  glowing 
thoughts  handled,  twisted,  and  distorted  by  coarse 
fingers;  to  shed  scalding  tears  over  the  gravest 
charge  which  can  be  untruthfully  brought  against  a 
woman's  pen ;  to  bear  it,  writhing  in  silence,  and 
have  that  silence  misconstrued,  or  speak  in  your  own 
defense,  and  be  called  unwomanly ;  to  be  a  target 


CHARLOTTE    BRONTE.  335 

for  slander,  envy,  and  misrepresentation,  by  those  of 
both  sexes  who  can  not  look  upon  a  shining  gar 
ment  without  a  wish  to  defile  it — all  tins,  a  man's 
shoulders  may  be  broad  enough  to  bear,  but  she 
must  be  a  strong  woman  who  does  not  stagger  un 
der  it. 

I  see  Charlotte  Bronte  in  the  little  parsonage  par 
lor,  at  Haworth,  draperied,  hung  with  pictures,  fur 
nished,  at  last,  with  books  from  the  proceeds  of  her 
own  pen ;  and  upon  the  vacant  chairs  upon  which 
should  have  sat  the  toiling,  gifted  sisters,  over  whom 
the  grave  had  closed,  I  see  inscribed,  Too  late — Too 
late  !  and  I  look  at  its  delicate  and  only  inmate,  and 
trace  the  blue  veins  on  her  transparent  temples,  and 
say,  Too  late  ! — even  for  thee — Too  late  !  Happi 
ness  is  not  happiness  if  it  be  not  shared — it  turns  to 
misery.  But,  thank  God,  at  last  came  the  delirious 
draught  of  love,  even  for  so  brief  a  space,  to  those 
thirsting  lips — but  which,  incredible  as  it  may  seem, 
the  father,  in  his  selfishness,  would  have  dashed 
aside ;  relenting  at  last,  he  gave  up  this  tender, 
shrinking  flower  to  more  appreciative  keeping ;  but 
the  blast  had  been  too  keen  that  had  gone  before — 
the  storms  too  rough — the  sky  too  inclement.  We 
read  of  a  wedding,  the  happiness  of  which  the  self 
ish  father  must  cloud  at  the  last  moment,  by  refus 
ing,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  or  no  reason  at 
all,  to  give  away  the  bride  in  person  according  to 
episcopal  usage — we  read  of  a  short  bridal  tour — of 
a  return  to  a  love-beautified,  love-sanctified  home — 


336  FRESH    LEAVES. 

we  read  of  a  pleasant  walk  of  the  happy  pair — of  a 
slight  cold  taken  on  that  occasion — of  a  speedy  de 
lirium — of  a  conscious  moment,  in  which  the  new- 
made  bride  opened  wide  her  astonished  eyes  upon 
her  kneeling  husband,  pleading  with  God  to  spare 
her  precious  life ;  and  we  read  the  heart-rending 
exclamation  of  the  latter  as  the  truth  flashed  upon 
her  clouded  intellect — "  0  !  I  am  not  to  die  now  f 
— when  we  have  been  so  happy  ?"  and  with  stream 
ing  eyes  we  turn  away  from  the  corpse  of  Charlotte 
Bronte. 


THE    END. 


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